The Reaper Moweth

[Varda]

I was at Death’s door.

I could tell by the ankh doorknocker clenched between mandibles.

I knocked. The echoes were swallowed by the dead space within.

No answer.

I craned my neck. The freshly mown suburban lawn continued around the house. I followed it, checking the windows for any signs of Death. Nothing.

Swish. Swish.

The sound of a scythe set my scalp tingling. I rounded the corner.

Death in a black cowl swept its scythe through the long grass, trimming it to a tidy height.

Crab grass.

“Care to buy some grass seeds, sir?”

As you sow, you reap.

[Scattercat]

If you sow as you reap, Death, therefore, must be the source of life?

[strawman]

If you sow as you reap, Death, therefore, must be the source of life?

One plants. Another fertilizes.

[Scattercat]

Life is just death plus shit, then?

Well, pretty much, actually.

[Varda]

Life is just death plus shit, then?

Well, pretty much, actually.

Or, life takes death and shit and makes some pretty cool artwork out of it. Like one of them postmodern art exhibits.

[strawman]

Life is just death plus shit, then?

Well, pretty much, actually.

Maybe death plus slush?

[Varda]

Life is just death plus shit, then?

Well, pretty much, actually.

Maybe death plus slush?

We have looked upon the face of Evil, and it is the slush pile.

[Flintknapper]

death is the building block of life and life is the building block of death. I am not sure this is my favorite, but I like the name of the drabble.