The bells do not toll but clatterknell from the nightstand, clanging into the dusk’s waning light with the chirigrate of hammering steel. His veined eyes, sunk deeply in his ashen face, crack open. Another graveyard shift ahead, settling dozens of overdue accounts—kill that racket!
He drops his feet to the floor. What if he doesn’t go in tonight? He could take vacation. Who would care? Would the world stop spinning?
The dog whimpers at the door.
No. Duty summons.
Death, the Grim Usher, stumbles out of bed, hoping the coffee maker isn’t burned out again, Cerberus licking his heels.
Yay, more flash fiction! I particularly like the term clatterknell.
Phil, have you ever read Reaper Man? Judging from this short, you might enjoy it.
Thanks, and no, I haven’t read Reaper Man or anything by Terry Pratchett. Yet another example of my profound ignorance.
I like clatterknell too. As an invented word, I hope it isn’t just a bad Lewis Carroll imitation.