Death perched on the Ferris wheel and regarded the sea of humanity as the masses scurried below. No one observed him as he leaned precariously over the ride’s ledge.
It was the second night of a somewhat annual winter festival near the unremarkable town of Rural Retreat. People traveled from across the county to attend these festivities and enjoy the rustic atmosphere. But as is so often the case at places of overindulgence, those in attendance did not understand how close they were to the Angel of Death.
Azrael preferred when people used the name from his mortal years rather than the immortal title of Death. He spoke casually to what appeared to be an oversized brown owl that clung to the ride’s car beside him.
“Why is it they will eat fried cookies and ice cream tonight, but only sala
