An Eighteen Irish Rose

“Adieu, Pallor.  Don't eat all the grass in the field, now,” he said to his steed, stroking its mane as Death's feet hit the ground running.  The horse set about consuming the field like a lawn mower.  Corpseboy gained velocity.  The lead grew taut.  He fanned his wings  and suddenly, we were airborne. 

Wind rushed past me as he pumped his pinions.  I sat back, mortified, and watched the world pass like a dream.  The field rolled into forest, forest into stream, to fern-riddled glens and meadow ringed by trees.  It was beautiful beyond compare, with the multi-hued stars and Milky Way like a river.  Corpseboy himself looked like an angel of the night.  His hair snaked behind him in a dusky halo and his skin, pale as starlight, glowed like polished stone.

“You'll freeze, little fool, and then I really will have a body to put in the hearse,” he said.

I refused to answer, longing for