Brian Cook's Blog

The angel of death was there. It hovered so near, pressing down on her, that a dialogue with it became inescapable. She’d been on the examining table too long, the paper runner crackling under her shifting weight, not to know the exchange would occur. As uncomfortable as she’d become in the long silence, she preferred it to what came next. When the angel spoke, the poetry of her demise would fall from its gilded tongue and she would be forced to engage it. Anything else would be rude. The angel knew this.

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