Writer's Journal

The man had been sitting in a cafe, reading a book he held in one hand and drinking coffee. This plan was interrupted by the intrusion of the Bureaucrat, the short, thin man stormed in with his tie flapping over one shoulder and a black briefcase trailing behind him in one thin arm.

“Mr. Jones,” the Bureaucrat said, even managing to pronounce the “.” in “mr.”, “I’ve been looking all over for you. I need you to sign these forms.”

A thin folder slid across the table.

“What?” the man asked, marking his page in the book he’d been reading, “what do you want?”

“Those forms should’ve been signed eight years ago.”

“Can we just say that ship’s sailed?”

“No, sir. You were supposed to have died eight years ago.”

“Wait, what?”

The Bureaucrat sighed.

“Okay, I’m the representative of death, and I need to get your signature so that you can have died in a lightning storm eight years ago.”

Mr. Jones looked up at the bureaucrat.

“But I don’t want to have died eight years ago. I’ve got a wife and daughter.”

“But it will have never happened, and you’ll be dead anyway. It won’t matter.”

Mr. Jones furrowed his brow.

“That doesn’t make me feel better about it. I don’t want to have died.”

“But it’s foreordained, you can’t fight fate,” the Bureaucrat said emphatically.

“I can choose not to sign your paperwork.”

“No, you can’t,” the Bureaucrat said.

“I think that’s what I’m going to do,” Mr. Jones said, picking up his book again and opening it emphatically.

“We’ll garnish your wages, take your house. Up until you choose to have died in that thunderstorm eight years ago.”

“Do that and I’ll sue your ass, Mr. Death.”

The Bureaucrat’s face darkened.

“Well, Mr. Jones, I’ll see you in court.”