M. was almost seventy years old when the question of his mortality suddenly struck him.Is it true that I will die? This question shot up into the top of his skull with such force, so philosophical in intent, that it interrupted the brisk rhythm of his walk and demanded that he stop. He did stop, there was no way to resist the invasion of this big inquiry. Where did that come from? M. had never known the discipline of the mind, had never had cause to reflect on that private domain of thought where all the big questions were being answered by the clever people in the mind, the people of talk-shows and in university halls. M. had never before encountered such an audacious question, never before known the panicked reaction that such a question would inspire in a person who did not know how to avoid it. He therefore brought his legs together, shuffled them around until he could evenly distribute his weight over them, and took in some air. It was hot and the air was dense. He gagged and his right hand shot up to this heart. He closed his eyes and focused on the bold beat of his heart, so much bolder than ever before. Then he looked at the horizon. He was late today. The shimmering blue of the sea had now dulled because the sun had sank well and truly to the west and was not threatening to disappear into the beyond. M. loved sunsets. They were simple and common things. And death? Common. It was everywhere. Friends, family, neighbours, dogs, everyone was dying. But what about me? Will death really come to me? Will it really come get me too? M. did not know how to answer these questions. He imagined death would come, but he could not be sure. He did not know why death came. He did not know if there was a possibility that it would not come. He stood there until it was dark.

Fiction, Short Fiction