Rube John Sofer: Breakfast at Kiffany's

Theatrical Muse: Week 141: Question 141

Fri, 15 Sep 2006 17:39:07 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 502

Name one thing about human nature that puzzles you. (Or your own species/race, if you are not human and don't wish to do this on humans.)

Everything puzzles me about the human race, it’s that simple. Every, single, fucking, thing, about what I am, about, who, I am, puzzles me, because I’m a human. I’m a mere human, a pawn on the chessboard of upper management.

Fuck upper management.

The only control that they have over my life, is the fact that they stuck me here, and gave me an afterlife. After that, I am still as free as I was when I was alive. I possess my own free will and my own free moral choice. They’re a bunch of stupid fuckers, but, all the same, I’ve learnt things from them. More like they’ve reinforced what I already knew, or, already suspected. Things like the balance between good and evil, a greater good, everyone has to die, people have souls, stuff like that. They still spout on about their fair share of bullshit, though, so a reaper’s got to keep their eyes open, in case, just in case, they decide to throw some their way. Upper management doesn’t only spout bullshit out of its proverbial ass, it gives it to you, steaming hot, on a platter.

Plagues, mass murderers, serial killers, terrorist attacks, multiple deaths, multiple killings. Not so much their fault, no, no, of course not, it’s the gravelings who do the nasty work, but it’s the fact that they just keep on going, that bothers me. Sit way up, on high, above us, with all their fancy benefits, and, they, they just keep on going. It’s stupid, fucking, bloody, stupid, that’s what. If they’re so high and mighty, then why can’t they do their own dirty work, instead of leaving it for us poor grunts to do. They fuck with us, and they fuck us up, by doing all this to us, and, simply, quite, simply, it’s not fair, not, bloody, fucking, fair.

They’re good, and they’re bad, that’s what upper management is. A bunch of topsy-turvy fuckers, who can be kind on one day, and horrible the next. I like them, in one way, and, yet, at the same time, in another way, I don’t like them, and, really, that’s all there is to my relationship with them. We have this mutual love, hate, relationship, thing, going for us. Since it started, it’s been working pretty well, for me, so far.

The thing is, I don’t care whether I ever have a great understanding of humanity, because, as far as I’m concerned, I already have a pretty good one, and, I definitely have one that’s adequate enough for me, and the lifestyle, I have, chosen, to lead. I work on strengthening and growing my understanding of the human race, but it’s not something that consumes me, because, I realised, long, long ago, I could never understand everything that happens, or, everything, someone does. It’s just not the way things go, and, so, in knowing that, I know that, I don’t have to know everything, something which is, pretty, dicking, fine and dandy, with me.

Theatrical Muse: Week 140: Question 140

Sun, 27 Aug 2006 12:06:35 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 577

Look out! Select the word(s) of your choice and complete the scene. You’re walking/strolling/wandering/running/ducking past a window/door/tent flap/cave opening/car/alleyway and a bullet/rock/arrow/book/knife whistles past your head. You immediately...

You’re running past a door and a rock whistles past your head. You immediately...

Turn around. Turning around, the man watched as the woman emerged from the doorway, holding a little pile of rocks, which she was chucking, with an amused grin, past his head. It was one of those days in the land of Roxy.

That being said, he shouldn’t have been walking backwards, let alone trying to jog backwards, and, just as he stumbled, and began to fall, she dashed over, and caught him, tugging him upright again. Roxy could move quickly, when she wanted to do so.

“As much as I love head contusions, Rube.” she said, putting an accent on the love, part of her sentence. Roxy was being sarcastic. He liked that.

“I could do without them on your head this morning.” she said, letting go of him, and pausing, to tie her shoelaces, before she ran ahead of him.

“Gonna beat you to the park today.” she said, grinning at him, her head turned, before she redirected her face to look in front of her, once more.

The head reaper briefly contemplated getting inside a car, and driving ahead of her, in order to beat the woman in their early morning race, but decided against it. She’d hurt him. Roxy would hurt him, and he didn’t want that, not that morning.

“We’ll see about that!” he shouted after her, taking a death breath, before he began to jog after her, eventually, over time, speeding himself up. He may have been a bit old, but he had spent a whole life running from everything, and he had become quite good at it. He had become an expert, at running, even.

They were struggling with a tie, as they came into the park and sped onto the pathway, past the plague guys, already playing bowls.

“Piano.” the man exclaimed, and the woman slowed for a moment, to quickly glance around, with a soft question of.

“Where?”

Before she realised, she had been fooled, upon which, she dashed after him and he sped towards their imaginary finishing lane, on the grass, between the two tall, old, trees.

Tackling the older man to the ground, they landed on the grass between the two, old, trees, together, with a thump, both out of breath, and, yet, laughing like they had all the air in the world, contained within their lungs.

“Why the hell do we do this to ourselves, Rube?” the woman questioned, releasing the man, and picking herself up from him, after which, she sat upright, with a silly grin.

“Because we can.” the man said, sitting up also, and sticking out his right hand, for a congratulatory shake.

“Because we’ve got all the time in the world, my dear.” he said, trying to assume a faux British voice, and failing, as the woman shook his hand.

Both reapers fell onto their backs, on the grass, between the two tall, old, trees, laughing once more.

“You do know, we have to go back up there, to my house, to get your car, and my car.” Roxy said, after a few minutes of contented chuckling.

“I know.” Rube said, simply.

“I know.” he finished, and together, they both let out a simultaneous sigh.

But they had all the time in the world. All the time in the world, so they didn’t have to be bothered about that, just yet. No, no, not just yet, no, no.

Theatrical Muse: Week 139: Question 139

Sun, 27 Aug 2006 03:18:59 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 930

Do you tend to make friends easily? Why/why not?

I’ve always been very happy to make friends. The thing is, many people, in one way or another, are annoying, to me, and, because of this, I find it difficult to make friends. It’s not that I don’t want friends, I just, happen to dislike a large amount of people, because, they piss me off. That being said, I’ve had many friends in my lifetime, and I will continue to make them until my time is up, it is just a slow process, that is all. For someone like me, friends, good, real, true, best friends, come along rarely, once in a blue moon. Sure, I’ll smile at people, and I may become friendly with them, over time, but I live in Seattle, and, there are so many people in Seattle, that it might be just a passing glance, a brief smile, before everyone, including me, moves on.

It’s hard, because I tend to be antisocial, or, so Roxy tells me, and I like to watch, instead of actively participate in every experience that comes my way. I like to supervise, examine and learn, not be tugged around like a corn doll. I try to make friends, but only, only, when I know that the time is right to do so, and that they are good people. There is no use in making friendly with someone you don’t like, or trust.

The family that I can touch and feel, the people that I can see with my own two eyes, are now, still existing here on Earth. I feel Lucy’s spirit, I feel Rosie’s spirit, sure, but it’s not the same. Lucy visits me, but she never stays long, and, rarely, do I even get to see her. She was beautiful beyond repair, beyond anything and everything, and every time she drops that list at my door, and, I miss her, my heart tears apart, freshly, once more. That’s how much I miss her. But Roxy, George, Mason and Daisy, though, I can touch them, I can feel them, I can see them, I can hear them, I can smell them. They are still physical beings, who are trapped, trapped on this godforsaken Earth, just like me. As much as I may not admit it, to most of them, I need all of them, so very, very much. Without my family, without my bloody, fucking, family of reapers, I’d have shut myself away long ago. No matter how much I may dislike some of my meetings with them, no matter how much I may hate their disobedience, or their glares and crude comments, I need the human contact. It’s a part of what keeps me going, and, a part of what has kept me going for so long, a part of what has, ultimately, brought me here, to the life, the life, that I lead, right, very, now.

Mason’s a fuck-up, which is a hyphenate, George is unruly and disobedient, Daisy is fucking annoying, and Roxy, is Roxy, but I need them, I need all of them, all the same. Loosing Betty was hard, because I needed Betty, and yet, I found a way to move on, and, so has she. I dread each and every one of my reapers moving on, apart from that pain in the ass guy, who had a stick so far up his own ass, I swear, his eyes were going to pop out. I dread their going, because I need them, and, without them, I have to readjust, I have to learn a certain way of life, a life, without them, anew, all over again.

The truth is, I hate a lot of people, yet, at the same time, I like a lot of people, as well. People piss me off, but, with some of them, they have provided me with some of the best times of my life. I like that, because it makes me happy, because, it makes me feel good, and I feel sad when those people leave me, behind, because I know, until my unspecified allotment of souls is up, that I won’t get to follow them. I won’t get to follow them onwards and upwards, along the same glorious, lit up path, that they have already travelled. One day, I’ll get there, but that moment, is not just now, because it’s not my time to go, just yet. I will lead, I will follow, I will make friends and lose them. To simply put it, to, simply, explain the whole matter, that’s life, and I know that.

Even if I may not fully like it, that is, life, and it is a life that I am thankful for, because, no matter what it’s done to me, it gave me the chance to live. I like that chance that I have been given, really, and honestly, I do. I like it, a fucking, lot. Messed up, yeah, glorious, yeah, wonderful and stupid, of course. But that’s it, that, is, fucking it. Everything, whether I hate it or like it, was given to me by that chance, and, without that chance at life, I wouldn’t have been here to suffer and to overcome. That’s the most important thing, in all of this, really, that, I was given the chance to live, the great, glorious, stupid, messed up, chance to live. I live onwards and upwards, and, until my final after death stretch of time is done, I’m going to live my afterlife, to the fullest it can possibly be lived. Why? Because I have to. Simply, just, because, I have to.

Theatrical Muse: Week 138: Question 138

Mon, 21 Aug 2006 17:39:02 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 1032

Spirit.

He was standing there, he was watching, watching the whole wide world, and then, he was jumping, and, then, he was falling. Falling, falling, falling, falling into oblivion and beyond, falling downwards, into darkness. Always falling. Always falling, falling, falling, falling, off the white cliffs of Dover.

Always, always, seeing Betty Rhomer fall with him. And, always, always, she would come over and save him, fly over with a great big smile and lift him up, taking him back up to the top of the cliff again, where he would walk away to the light, and the lit up being, who stood there, waiting for him. He’d always, always, just nearly reach the glowing figure, and then, he’d wake up, startled, with a shock, upon which, he would curse loudly. He always wanted to reach Lucy, but, in the dream, in the dream, at least, he never reached her. Neither did he ever, truly, reach her, in his life now, his current life, but, at least, at the very least, he sometimes, occasionally, got to see her. And, if he didn’t get to see her, then her spirit, which lived on, was most definitely with him.

Rube woke up as usual, after having one of his ghastly nightmares. Drenched in sweat, and clutching the sheet and blanket to his bed, so tight, that his knuckles were an icy, pressed, white. Slowly releasing his tightly wound grip, the man prised his fingers, and his hands, from the bed covers, and used them to throw the blanket and sheet off his slightly shaking frame. Closing his eyes, he took two deep breaths in, one after another, and took a few seconds to steady himself, to collect his mind, and then, opening his eyes, he swung his legs to the right, over the side of the bed, and was up, standing, within mere moments. Fumbling a bit in the oily, midnight like darkness, he switched on his bedside table lamp and sat down on the bed as soon as he found the phone resting on the floor, near the table, where he had left it. The thing that most disturbed him about his dream about falling off the cliff, aside from the falling off the cliff bit, as well as Betty and Lucy, was the presence of Roxy, dark faced and dressed in a black reaper’s robe, with a scythe, standing next to a tiny little house. He always remembered when he’d see her, because it was always, always, always, mere moments before he nearly reached Lucy, and promptly woke up. The look on her face always scared him, for some reason, in the dream, in the nightmare, even though she had given him similar looks in real life, which had caused him no ill feeling. Perhaps, it was the fact that, in that nightmare, in that particular nightmare, he really feared that Death Roxy, may hurt him, beyond, inevitable, reckless, repair.

Picking up the phone off the floor, the reaper lifted up the handset, and dialled a couple of numbers. He waited while the phone rang, alerting the person, hopefully, on the other end of the line, to it’s ringing presence. Finally, eventually, when the person on the other end of the phone line, answered, he cleared his throat, displaying, showing, just the littlest, merest, hint of unsteadiness.

Before he could get a word out, though.

“What the fuck do you want? What right do you have calling me in the middle of the night, like this? I swear to fucking God and heaven high, I will seek you out and kill you, if this is a prank call.”

Rube smiled briefly, and cleared his throat once more, after which, he, promptly, began to speak, interrupting Roxy’s little tirade, and ending it, therein.

“It’s me, Roxy.” he said, simply, shortly, briefly, sweetly.

It was, perhaps, the fact that he was calling in the middle of the night, or the fact that the man’s voice had a bit of a waver to it, but, either way, the woman stopped short, and didn’t continue her angry argument at the injustice of being woken up in the middle of the night, or the early hours of the morning, whatever the hell time it was. Instead, she, herself, paused, for a few seconds after the man finished speaking, letting their shared silence linger in the air, and soon, cleared her own croaky throat.

“What do you need, Rube?” Roxy said, her voice showing a small, slight, amount of, surprise.

“Meet me down at Der Waffle Haus in about fifteen minutes?” he said, nodding to himself.

On the other the end of the line, the woman smiled, and nodded, also.

“That’s fine.” she said.

The man was already sitting, and had just been handed his coffee, muffin and plate of extra, extra, extra crispy bacon, by the time the sleepy woman, with her rollers still in her hair, walked in the door, pulling a woollen cap over her head. She watched him for a few seconds, almost out of site, as he stirred two sugar packets, in an absent minded fashion, into his jet black, steaming coffee drink. She doubted that he needed the caffeine, or the sugar, at all, but she would let him do, whatever he wanted, anyway, partially because, right now, right very now, she couldn’t stop him.

Walking in fully, the woman took a seat beside the lonely man, ordered, and didn’t jump as he laid a peaceful head against her shoulders, his eyes blank. It was rare that Rube did this, that he did, such a thing, but he had done it before, and she accepted his need for comfort. Aside from moving her arm around his shoulder, to let an idle finger stroke his hair, and leaning into his resting presence, Roxy didn’t movie, didn’t say anything. She just was there, she, just, remained, there, for him, always, always, always, always, just for him. Just like he was always, always, always, always, there, for her. That comfort, that unbreakable bond, that unspoken knowledge, that everlasting friendship, would always be there, and they would always, always, share it, with each other, just, always, always.

Theatrical Muse: Week 137: Question 137

Mon, 14 Aug 2006 17:07:04 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 1070

Have you ever woken up in the morning and not remembered what you did the night before?

It’s going to surprise George, and amuse Roxy, but I’ve done that plenty of times. Plenty, plenty, plenty, plenty, of times. In the early 1900s, and even in the years before that, shot and damn, you had good, old fashioned, fun. You got drunk, you played stupid games, you got into fights, and if you had a black eye and a woman in bed with you the next morning, then you were declared the winner by your own self. I mean, sure, we were careful, and safe, and all that, in sexual ways, but when me and my friends got going, got partying, as Mason might say, we really did it right.

I can’t say I’m completely proud of my youth, my adulthood, nor my afterlife. In my childhood, I was well behaved, but I also spent a certain amount of my time roughhousing with my friends. As I progressed into adulthood, I learnt how to get drunk, and pick up pretty women, and have sex. The latter two I could do well enough, without alcohol, mind you, but, on occasion, wild drunken nights, did happen, to me.

Now, though, life has calmed down a lot. I get the list, I deal out the list on post-it notes, I eat, I drink lemonade, or milk, or something, and I go home. Shower, rinse, and repeat. Besides, it takes a lot more to get me hammered, and down right smashed, these days. I’ve got that whole undead metabolism working for me now, so, if I really want to wake up, and not remember my night, I need a good deal of alcohol, to get there. I’m not that irresponsible, though, I’m not like Mason, who is a fuck-up, which is a hyphenate. Let me rephrase that, rarely am I fucked up, and it will be a blue moon at Christmas before I let myself get as bad as he does.

Once upon a time, I lived the high and the wild life. Money was an issue, but it wasn’t a really large one. I wasn’t exactly upper class, but I knew enough to be able to fit in with them, if I wanted to. No, I didn’t really lead the high life, but for a while, in some periods, I led a wild one, an exciting one, wit never ending possibilities, dreams, hopes, and fantasies.

When I met Lucy, none of that mattered anymore. I was willing, oh, so, very, willing, to travel to the sun and the moon for her, no matter how much it hurt, or how long I had to endure the pain for. I stopped all the reckless ways I had left, and, believe me, by then, there were very few, if any, and, I settled down. I settled down with her, I married her, and together, we had a family, and, eventually, we added a daughter to the mix. Then I went and robbed a bank and died. It wasn’t even the Great Depression, yet, and I went and robbed a bank, just because, only just because, we so desperately needed the money, and nothing, or no one, would help, or was helping.

After death, life takes on a whole meaning, because, if you come back as a reaper, or something else, like I did, you are now undead, this is now, your afterlife, or, technically, your second life, except, you’re not the dictionary definition of living anymore. I miss my life with my wife, and I miss my daughter, so, the best thing I can do now, is do my job, so I can be with them one day, once again, once more. The thing is, I know what it’s like to lose everything, so I’m more careful now, than I ever was. If I need to forget it all for a while, then I’ll go out and get drunk, but I rarely do that, because I’m content, and, quite, perfectly, happy, where I am. Sure, I live, or, more specifically, share my life, with a fuck-up, a grump, a beauty queen and a police officer, but this afterlife, this new life, it’s not all that bad. As such, I do not mind it, really, all that much. I have life, I have friends, and I have family. They may not be living, and some may not even be with me, but I still have them, in memories and beyond, and, one day, just, one day, sometime in the future, I’ll be with them all again. Then, the others will join me, and, finally, it will all be over. I look forward to it, and, yet, at the same time, I don’t want it to arrive. Either way, it’s an unavoidable fate, so, I’ve worked out that I’m just going to be, both, happy and sad, when it comes. I enjoy life, any form of it, really, I do, very much, and that, honestly, is how I feel.

Yeah, it’s a fucked up life that I lead, that I have lead, and will continue to lead in the future, but, right now, I’m happy, and that’s a good thing. I’m happy, and content, and sometimes sad and upset, but I’m going to keep on going, because I want to, because I have to, because I can, and, ultimately, because I need to. Once, I lived, for real, and I had a wife, and a daughter. I robbed a bank, I died, and I came back. I came back, and I made friends, found contacts, found a place to live in, and established a new way of life. I learnt the rules to this life, quickly, very quickly, at that, and I have stuck to them ever since. I do many things, I paint, I sculpt, I read, I write, I eat, I drink, I sleep, I reap, and I keep on going. At the end of the day, at the end of your life, even, if it so happens, all you can do is continue. Continue onwards and upwards, without questions, because really, and simply, that’s all there is to it. Onwards and upwards, forevermore, into eternity. I like life, because it is just that, life, onwards and upwards, continually growing, continually expanding, changing and developing, life. Life is grand, life is good, wonderful, horrible, sad, happy, great and splendid, and I love it, yes, I love it, quite a lot, quit a fucking, lot.

Theatrical Muse: Week 136: Question 136

Tue, 25 Jul 2006 13:05:29 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 437

‘What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.’ Do you agree or disagree? Why?

I used to think I was invulnerable, above harm, or injury, or being destroyed. This way of thought was especially so when I was a child, and it, really did, continue on for quite a while. Even when I became an adult, I realised that I was not invulnerable, but I still felt that I couldn’t be hurt. You have to feel brave, and a slight bit cocky, when you’re herding sheep or cattle on a horse to ride on, and a shotgun by your side.

Eventually, my bravado wore down as I ages, but I was still strong, I was still proud, I was still a valiant fighter for what I believed to be right and good, even if I didn’t shine the spotlight on myself. And for fuck’s sake, I lived in dangerous times, in dangerous places, where organised crime prevailed, and the little man, didn’t always win.

Then came Lucy, and she changed me. For the first time in my life, a woman wasn’t about a fuck and a one night stand, because, with her, I saw my future in its entirety. I saw children, and a house, and unimaginably good summer afternoons where we would sit on the wooden porch of our home, in rocking chairs, and drink cold lemonade with ice cubes in it.

Before I got to that point, that much, I died, and it all fell behind. At least, physically it did, because, really, I’ll never, ever, forget, my wife and daughter, my Lucy and my Rosie, my whole entire life, my, whole, entire world. Because of that injury, I wished I was dead, and, sometimes I still do. The only problem being, I am already dead, and reapers, really, can’t die, at least, not until their unspecified allotment of souls, has been collected.

The thing is, in my life, there were many moments that didn’t kill me, but made me stronger. However, I’m dead now, so, in one way, the statement no longer applies to me. However, I still think it does, because, to me, it means what doesn’t stop me, completely, makes me stronger. Death and heartache tear at my daily life, and they will do, until I collect my last soul, and journey into the great beyond, to be with my family once more, but these wretched things do not destroy me. That is the important thing, really, it is, that my troubles do not wreck me make my world end. And since they don’t, I don’t have to worry about stopping, I just have to concentrate on keeping on going, until I get my final reprieve.

Theatrical Muse: Week 135: Question 135

Tue, 25 Jul 2006 13:03:06 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 616

Talk about something you inherited. (It could be an object, a physical attribute, a belief, etc.)

When my father died, he left me a lot of things, because, I was his only child, you see. The two things that I’ll always remember, were his two guns. A rifle, and a handgun, both nothing too special, just fairly run of the mill things. They were simple, and they definitely were without all those fancy dohickeys that you can attach to some modern day guns. These days, guns are too fancy when it comes to personal use. Back in my day, a shotgun was a shotgun, and the more you paid, the more you got, and that was it. In respects to law enforcement, I’m quite happy for them to specialise, but for every day use by your common Joe, things are getting a bit out of hand. I read the papers, and there is story after story of young kids dying because of guns. Gun control, and education about guns, in America, is slack, and, as a result, crap, and yet many people refuse to acknowledge it, while so many around them are hurt. When I have to go reap the souls of these poor little blighters, it’s infuriating and upsetting, to say the least.

I keep the two guns in a box in my wardrobe, with a few of the other things that he, and my mother, left me behind. They’re mementos from a time long past, a time I should have, honestly, had less time to reflect on. After your parents die, you’re lucky if you have another forty years left to live, and, yet, I’ve already gotten, so, much, fucking, more. I sit down with these guns, and I try to sort out my feelings. On one hand, I like guns, they’re interesting to use, as well as fun, as long as you handle them responsibly, and don’t go around killing people, of course. On the other hand, they make my current job hard, pretty, damn, fucking hard, because lots of people die unnecessarily, and if they’re big enough and powerful enough, they can make it quite messy as well. I’m a grim reaper, I lurk near death, I witness it, but when there’s blood everywhere, sneaking through it to collect the poor sap who has just been killed, is hard.

Although they’re already, probably, worth a bundle, I’m never going to sell those two guns. My father was a Doctor, and I have plenty of things, like his stethoscope, stored away as well the guns. There’s just something about them though, that remind me of another side of my father. It was the side that took me hunting, the gruff, methodical side that sat with me when he took me camping, and helped me gut fish. It was the one that looked at me when I got married, and told me not to fuck it up. Of course, I saw that methodical, strong side in his work, and in his home life, but those other sides, they were more primal. I need to keep those memories, because, in turn, they keep the circle of all the memories I have about him, joined together, and they keep them strong. Truthfully, he died just before I did, and I attended his funeral, and held my mother, and gave a speech. And then, I fucked up, everything, I ever loved, and you know what? I know, I just know, that he was looking down on me, and was angry at me. However, I also know, that he’s forgiven me, and taking that, along with all the other things that keep me going, I’m a strong man, and I’m going to last this one, final, great battle out, to the very, fucking, end.

Theatrical Muse: Week 134: Question 134

Sun, 09 Jul 2006 16:21:25 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 640

What is the lamest excuse you’ve ever given for something you’ve done?

I tried to tell my mother once that I hadn’t stolen some of the money out of the money jar to buy ice cream.

You see, my mom, she would scrimp and save every penny. It wasn’t that we were cheap, or that we really needed to save five cents from the groceries, but she just liked to be neat. Even though, my father was a Doctor, and Doctors were extremely well paid members of society, she always liked saving for a rainy day, if ever a rainy day, was ever to come. Having gone through the Great Depression by myself, I can relate to that now.

Anyway, on that particular day I was hungry, so hungry, even though she had just made me a fresh sandwich on wholemeal bread with ham and salad inside. I ate it, of course, but, you know how it is. The moment you hear the chiming bell of the ice cream man’s truck, you’re hungry, hungrier than you could ever imagine. I wasn’t very old then, either, so my order of logic wasn’t that good. Even though I was quite mature for my age, I, like any other child, couldn’t resist the temptation of ice cold ice cream.

So, my mom had gone out to the backyard to weed the garden while my father read the newspaper in this old wooden and cloth deckchair we had. She kept the money jar on top of this great big old wooden cupboard and plate holder that we had in out kitchen. I wasn’t near anywhere tall enough to imagine getting it off the top from the floor, so I got a chair. And, standing on tipytoes on this wooden chair, I just managed to get the jar down. It was a great big old pickle jar, and I set it down on the table, and scooped out how much I would need, plus a little extra, so I could get sprinkles and a little chocolate stick in my ice cream cone. I hurriedly placed the jar back on the cupboard, and raced outside to join the growing line of children, kids and teenagers alike, waiting to get their ice cream cone.

I got that ice cream cone, by golly I got it, and it was beautiful, oh, how it was a beautiful ice cream cone. One scoop, some sprinkles, and a merry little chocolate wafer stick, sticking out the side of it, like a proud soldier saluting to his commanding officer. I ate the ice cream in piece, in the sanctity of my room, and, when I sneaked downstairs to wash my hands in the kitchen sink, there was my mother, waiting for me. Her look, oh, her look, I’ll always remember that look, was the most accusatory look, that I have ever seen in my overly extended life. She knew, I don’t know how, but she knew, just knew, that I had stolen money out of the jar. And she asked me, by golly did she ask me, if I had, and I said no, with a doleful shake of my head, and a woeful look in my eyes. You know what I did then? Hmm? I bet you don’t. Like the good boy I had been raised to be, I confessed to her, told her every detail. And after she said it would come out of my pocket money for that week, she sat down on one of the kitchen table chairs, and hugged me to her side, cradling me like an infant babe. Then she told me, how, one day, she had stolen money out of her mother’s money jar, to buy a roll of sweetened dough with white icing and coconut on the top. It was beautiful I tell you, yes, and, sure, it was a beautiful story, a beautiful, beautiful story.

Theatrical Muse: Week 133: Question 133

Sun, 09 Jul 2006 16:18:04 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 204

If... (Complete the sentence and write your ficlette.)

If only he hadn’t left her. If only he hadn’t left them.

He had always imagined what his life might have been like, had he not left his wife and kid, his Lucy and Rosie, his precious family, the two most important people in his world.

He had probably run, at least, a thousand, no, a million different scenarios through his head, as to what could have happened. He suspected, that he’d still have become a reaper, because, sometimes, to him, that felt like a bit of a predetermined thing. Then he scolded himself for thinking such bullshit ideas, and imagined a normal life and death existence with them instead.

They’d get through the Depression, somehow, and Rosie would grow up to be a beautiful, smart, intelligent and pretty girl. She’d get a good job, and marry a nice man, and have cute little grandchildren which he and Lucy would take care of as they sat on the wooden porch of their house, in their wooden rocking chairs, sipping lemonade.

If he hadn’t left them, he was sure, in one way, at least, that he’d be a happy, happy man. A very happy man indeed. And he would love it, so very, very much.

Theatrical Muse: Week 132: Question 132

Sun, 09 Jul 2006 16:14:30 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 433

What makes you angriest?

There are many things that make me angry, but really, what makes me the angriest, is death. I have this dual understanding about people dying. On one hand, I view it, sometimes, as very unfair, because there are those, especially in my section, who are dying before their time, or in a way that no person should ever deserve, no matter what things, or bad actions, they may have done, in their lifetime. It’s like, no one, deserves to get decapitated by a pane of glass, even if they were arguing with their fiancée that morning in the kitchen.

One the other hand, on the other side of things though, a balance needs to be made, and, kept. This balance, is, essentially, between good and evil, and in turn, that spreads out into life and death, understanding and forgiveness, murder and suicide, arguing and hate, and all those other things that are bad and good. There can be no utopian world, as I have learnt, and in knowing that very fact, I can understand the need to keep a balance between good and evil, between good and bad. Such a balance needs to occur, and continue to happen, in order for the world to keep function, to keep working and continuing onwards and upwards, to better and greater heights.

The human race is always growing. We are in this ever present, never ending cycle of growing up. We experience our trials and tribulations with different degrees of maturity, and our experiences will grow exponentially forevermore. Honestly, I am proud to be human, to be who I am, even if it may tear my mind apart. I am aware, fully aware, of the existence of others beings, but I do not envy them very much. I had a family, and I loved that family, and I still do, and will do, forevermore. One day, I’ll get to be with them again, but, until then, I have a job to do, an important fucking job. Upper management can twiddle their thumbs and bounce around in their lah de dah fashion, but I’m one of the working grunts. I have an important fucking job. I get to be one of the people, one of the beings who helps to keep the balance, the balance between good and evil, between good and bad. I get to help keep the balance between life and death. Sure, it may be unfair and tragic, it may not pay, or provide health benefits, not that I need them, but it’s important, and that’s what makes it count, to me, at least.

Theatrical Muse: Week 131: Question 131

Sun, 18 Jun 2006 06:20:22 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 698

What is your favourite retreat from the world?

Seattle. It has to be, namely because of the fact that, unless I get Roxy, or some other person, well, Roxy, to stand in for me, then I can hardly travel anywhere unless the reap or reaps that I have to do on the particular day, die in a place that requires me to travel for a while to get to it. I’m not much of a traveller to be honest, because, really, I’ve got all the things I need right here. I have my home, my possessions, my list and my reaping family. I have friends and contacts, and I know a few old ladies who think I’m adorable, and who give me cake and muffins when I sit down with one of them after reaping someone near by. Sure, I may not have my really family with me anymore, but their graves are here, and as such, I have even less of a reason to travel. And, yes, I know that I wasn’t born in Seattle, but now, I consider it to be my home. Once upon a time, I didn’t really, but now I do. Hell, and, fuck, I have a lot of bloody history here to be sure.

There is something special about this place. I know, I haven’t been to many places in my lifetime, but I’m more widely travelled than a large percentage of people, and, as such, I think I have the perfect right to say that there is, indeed, something special about Seattle. It’s not that easy to pinpoint, because it just isn’t one thing, it’s more a conglomeration of the fine points in life that this beautiful city can provide. There’s good food, such waffles, muffins, pie and extra, extra, extra crispy bacon at Der Waffle Haus and hotdogs in the beautiful parks. There is fine education for children, who are today’s young minds, and, further on, there is plenty of tertiary education available to anybody who seeks, needs and wants it. This, of course, is on top of all the other wonderful things that this dear place can provide for the individual, or individuals that choose to come and live within its depths.

There is plenty about this fine city to love, that I will not deny, but there is also a healthy amount of it not to like. I see death and disasters every single day of this unnatural afterlife. It’s not like I see them happen in different places around the world, no, no, I see them right here, in the city, in Seattle. I work in the external influences division, that means murders, suicides and accidents, and much, much more. I am the person looking in on the specific deaths that I assign myself, I get to see the results, and whose fault it ultimately was. Because of this, I get to see some very ugly things, and some very dark and shady creatures. I find it a bit sad and disturbing sometimes, that a city which I love too much, and cherish in the deepest recesses of my heart, can be such a place for havoc and disaster. I do know, though, that it is simply how things go, and, really, how things must go, for life to keep on going. People need to die, people have to die, and I am one of those people who can, will and has to, help them pass on.

I can drink as many shots of tequila as I like without getting drunk, I need enough pills to kill a horse to get a good night’s sleep, I work days and sometimes nights, depending on what’s happening and who is dying because of it. This is, my life, my afterlife, to be more exact, and I can not and will not, run away from it for a holiday. Really, even if I wanted to, getting away from here isn’t that easy. Once you come to Seattle, die, and become a reaper, the city has an odd, yet strangely wonderful way of growing on you. That and I have to go and get Roxy to fill in for me, and, normally, that’s a bit of a hard job.

Theatrical Muse: Week 130: Question 130

Sun, 18 Jun 2006 06:12:50 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 1055

Loyalty.

I’m a reaper. In my role as a reaper, better known, in a way, by the name grim reaper, I have to be loyal to my work, and to my co-workers, and I have to receive loyalty back from both those things. In my job, I preform a public service, and, as such, in some respects, I am a public servant. Because my position has this status, I do have more loyalty involved in my job. It wouldn’t matter, as much, if I worked in a fast food restaurant, because, in all honesty, being a minute, or a few minutes late, with someone’s meal, doesn’t matter. However, if you’re a minute late for someone’s departure from this Earth, for most of the times that happens, there are dire consequences. Especially when you work in the external influences department, like I do. Really, it’s not that pretty, smelly, nice or pleasant, to try and find a piece of someone, when that someone is in a thousand, or, even a million, pieces. If it’s any comfort to you, they’re normally in a couple hundred pieces, that only being the visible and touchable ones, though. That being said, even then, you have to find a piece that is big enough to extract a soul out of, and that can be hard some of the time. It’s also hard when they’re trapped under something, burned to a crisp, or have suffered some sort of similar kind of gruesome death. As such, I call it a good day when my reap doesn’t end up in a mullion pieces. Then again, though, for me, it doesn’t really matter that much, because I’m loyal to my job, and as a result of that, I’m always early. I’m always early, even if it’s just by a little while, and by golly, that isn’t an often occurring occurrence.

I have to be on time, because I have to be loyal to the poor person who is, quite often, going to suffer a more than terrible death, grisly even. I have to make sure that they don’t feel any pain, and, aren’t as traumatised as they might be if they’re soul remains in their body when it dies. Removing that very soul is also essential to them in another way, because it allows them to, eventually, pass on. So, either way, it has to be removed eventually, because, if they live, it will rot, and if the vessel that holds them, does lose life, then it has to be removed so that person can go on, or pass on, however you want to call it. I also need that person, that reap, my reap, to be loyal to me, and the bond that ties them to their own death, because, hell, if they don’t turn up, there’s only two things that could have happened, something’s not right, or upper management fucked up.

Combined with the loyalty between me and my reap, and my reap and me, I need to have faith that I am loyal to my family, and that they are loyal back to me. By family, of course, I mean my reaping family, because, you know, I really wasn’t as loyal as I could have been to Lucy and Rosie, and you can see where that got me. I need to know that, despite Mason being a fuck-up, despite George being troubled, despite Daisy having no brain, and despite Roxy, being Roxy, that they’ll turn up at Der Waffle Haus each morning, or, whenever the hell I ask them to, and follow orders. I need to know that they will follow what I order them to do, no matter what, regardless of how they feel, or, what they think, about it. Why? Because death is important, just as important as life, and in every part of the world, it needs to happen in order for that very world to go on spinning, to go on working and functioning.

The last loyalty I have to speak of is the loyalty that I had to my original family. And, I was always loyal to my parents, even if I did disobey them on occasion, or, occasions. Where I failed in loyalty to my family, was when I failed in having complete, total and utterly devoted loyalty to Lucy and Rosie, to my dear wife and sweet, sweet, precious daughter. I loved them both equally, and that was very, very, very, very much, that I loved them, and, despite that, I left them. I left them to suffer under the greatest depression that America has ever seen, with no husband, father figure or someone to rely on when the goings got tough, and I kick myself every day for that. The only solace, and, really, it’s not that much in amount, that I can find in what I did, was that, in a way, I did give them a better life. Sure, I robbed a bank, left them, and quickly died, the last thing they didn’t really ever know about, but, I saved them from more horrible things. I sent them some of the money I got from the robbery, and that helped them through the Depression. Financially, I’m sure it did, and in a way, I know it did, but, emotionally, it really didn’t help. How do I know that? Because me and my wife and daughter were closer than most families these days, closer than so many things in this modern day, and it tore me apart to leave them behind, so it must have done the same to them. With that knowledge in tow, I’ve been cursed with a burden that can never ever be lifted. Because even though they both forgave me, and I know that, there’s still the fact that I wasn’t loyal to the very people that I loved, and still love, the most.

It is, that is, the stuff that nightmares are made out of, the stuff that makes you cry. I have nightmares every single night, and I do cry, every now and them. Because when you love someone, truly love someone, like I did with Lucy and Rosie, like I did with my wife and daughter, even in death, you don’t stop loving them. I know I never did, never have, and really, and honestly, never will.

Theatrical Muse: Week 129: Question 129

Sun, 18 Jun 2006 06:07:44 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 648

When I awoke the next morning...

An old fold out single bed had been moved into the room his just born baby daughter and wife were staying in. Rube had taken the bed, and the accompanying sheets, blanket, pillows and pillow cases with a grateful nod and a kind word, and had set about putting his resting place together as quietly as he could, as to not wake the resting mother and her daughter. When that was done, he sat down on the fold out contraption, wincing as an audible creak sounded right throughout the room. After a few moments, he dared to move again, and, picking up his book from the floor, the new father sat there and read. He could not sleep yet, because he was too excited, and too awake, and, he just couldn’t.

Eventually though, the man requested an extra dinner from the dinner trolley, ate it, got out his overnight bag, showered, brushed his teeth, and went to bed. Just before slipping under the covers, Rube padded over to his daughter, sleeping in her own plastic hospital cot, and stroked the thin, wispy hair covering most of her head. Kissing the child on its forehead, he smiled, and bade her farewell with a simple “Goodnight Peanut”. Repeating the same motions, he stroked his wife’s head and kissed her on the forehead. Finally, he got into bed and promptly, fell asleep. Exhausted from the day’s ordeal, both mother and child, were sleeping peacefully. Lucy had given Rose, or Rosie, ad they had begun calling her, a feed after he had awoken her for dinner, but, otherwise, they were sleeping, ignorant to the world around them, content in their own peacefulness and quietness. He experienced those feelings too, and, with those emotions in his body, he felt complete, happy, and, complete. Utterly happy and complete, yes, that was it.

Waking the next morning as the sun peaked through tiny slits in the vertical blinds, Rube stretched and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the extremely creaky bed as he rubbed the sleepy dust out of his eyes. After quickly getting dressed and brushing his teeth, he sat, waiting, for a while. And then, a few minutes later, he saw his wife gradually awaken, and the man smiled at her as she gave their child, their daughter, a small feed, and proceeded to get up and go to the bathroom to take a shower. He looked at her his eyes questioning, his face silently asking her if she wanted any help, but she shook her head and smiled at him, a smile which he returned back, full force.

“Have faith Rube.” she said quietly as she made her way to the bathroom. Lucy had always liked being independent.

When the woman came out of the shower, dressed, she looked a little pale, but he simply already had a little carton of apple juice waiting for her, as well as her breakfast, which had been delivered while she had been away. After eating their meals, with Lucy back in bed and Rube sitting cross legged and barefooted on the end of the bed, she picked up Rose again and fed her once more. Curious, the man, the father, the new father, watched as she lifted the tiny infant to her breast and, instinct ruling over any other inclination, it found a lodging at her nipple and began to suck.

When their daughter was back asleep, the couple lay on the bed together, watching her in her cot, her tiny fingers occasionally curling and uncurling as she slept. They both wondered if she dreamed at all, and, thinking this together, the new parents both shrugged in unison, smiled and laughed quietly at each other, knowing what had the other had though, and then, quickly, went back to watching.

It was a wonderful, a beautiful, a happy, and an absolutely joyous life.

Theatrical Muse: Week 128: Question 128

Wed, 31 May 2006 09:27:46 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 1008

What does ‘comfort’ mean to you?

I know what comfort is to me now, but what is more important, really, when it comes to seeing the big picture, is what comforted me in the past. Significantly because what comforts me know isn’t what comfort me in the past, it has changed, a lot, as it may seem.

Comfort used to mean Lucy, and then, when she came along, Rosie. It used to be hearing my wife’s laugh and seeing her smile, and knowing, just knowing, in the deepest pits and depths of my heart, that everything would be ok, eventually. I still believed that when I robbed the bank, trust me, but I also had to do something, anything, to keep us from slipping down into the more horrible recesses that America had at the time. No, no, the Depression was not upon us when I did what I did, but that does not matter, because we were going to slip into poverty, stock market crash or not. I protected my family as I saw fit, and, in doing so, I saved their lives, at the high cost of having to leave my life behind, in the family sense, as well as the physical sense.

Comfort used to mean knowing that Lucy would try and cook me pancakes on a Saturday morning. And that, when she was around, Rosie would try and find a single flower to put in a tiny vase. I know she always did, no matter what was happening at the time. My wife’s love, my daughter’s love, the love that I used to receive from my wife and daughter together, was something that was so utterly comforting to me. It’s also something I miss every day, have missed every day since my death, and will continue to miss everyday until I’m with them again.

Comfort used to mean being comforted by the ones I love, it used to mean, being ok, and knowing that I would be ok. Comfort used to mean hope.

Now, comfort is a waffle or some extra, extra, extra crispy bacon. It’s having my team by my side and knowing that, even though the bastards in upper management haven’t, or won’t, let me go yet, that I’ll get there one day, and, suddenly, be free. I don’t have hope with my original family, in fact, sometimes, I struggle to find hope, and, yet, sometimes I do, when one, or, more of them, my group, my new family, does something to give me hope. It’s never the same though, no, no, it’s not false, but, it’s still not the same.

Roxy, I find, sometimes, gives me the most hope. Mason’s a fuck-up, and Daisy is annoying. George, Peanut, yeah, she does, in a way, but Roxy I’ve had hope with for longer, so, ultimately, she comes first.

If there is anything to be said about the relationship we share, it’s strong. That’s a known, tried and truly tested fact. She’s the only person, in over half a century, that I’ve ever found myself attracted to, and, within reason, I think I can say I love her. However, that’s where it ends, because still, no matter what happens, I can’t love anyone else relationship wise. I can, only, really, and quite truthfully, term the friendship that Roxy and I have, as a strong one, and extremely strong one, at that. My loyalties still lie with my wife, Lucy, and my daughter, Rosie, even though they’re both dead and buried.

Comfort used to mean being loved unconditionally, and loving unconditionally right back. It used to mean looking forward to surprises, no matter how good, bad, pretty or ugly, they were. It used to mean having hope, and unending, never ending, boundless, absolute happiness. Now, it, still, means, having hope, but in a different way, yes, yes, an entirely different way.

You see, sometimes I cry myself to sleep. I take sleeping pills when I choose to, because I suffer relentless, terrible, heart wrenching dreams. I keep constantly reliving happy moments of my past, as if something is trying to tear my soul, my heart, my eyes and my brain right out of me as I sleep. Gravelings hate me, as they do everyone, but they hate me quite a bit more. Worst of all, is that they have my wife, my wife, working for us reapers down here. She’s the one that delivers the list, and you know what? You know just what? They won’t let her go until I get my last soul and move on. She can’t forever be with my daughter because she’s a part time higher being worker for us reapers, down here. And you know, that’s just a kick up the ass, yeah, right deep in there. Why? Because they’re my family, and I want them to be happy. And none of us, no, none of us, can ever truly be happy until we’re together again. The way things are going, you know, I think it’s going to be a long time before I get going and join them once more. Yes, yes, they’ll forgive me, and still continue to love me, they always have and always will, but, God, dear, sweet, merciful, lord, I’ve been waiting for so long.

I miss them and I love them. I have missed and loved them every single day since I left them, and I will continue to do so until we’re all together again. One of the only saving graces that I have now, is that I’m doing good work, work that is essential, that needs to be done. And every step, every single step, every single soul I take, brings me one pace closer to being with them again. I miss them, and I love them. Really, when it comes to a point, that’s the most important thing to be said of the matter. I used to find comfort in hope, and in love, and now I find comfort in a different kind of hope, and the knowledge that I will find that love again.

Theatrical Muse: Week 127: Question 127

Wed, 31 May 2006 09:18:53 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 638

Describe a chance encounter that changed your life.

When I was young, I looked for love. Not all the time, but when I had a quiet moment to myself, I often found my eyes wandering. Of course, on some of those times, it was purely breasts or buttocks, or the pretty way a lass would style her hair. Other times, I saw potential, I felt need. Those rarely worked out.

With Lucy, I felt desire and I saw potential. But I also felt something else, something that was quite new and interesting to me. I saw friendship, kindness beyond all boundaries that I had ever felt before. I saw this woman, this beautiful, exquisite woman, and I immediately knew in the deepest part of my gut, that she was the one. It was something of a subconscious feeling, that one, but when I look back and reflect on it, I know it was there.

It was that moment, that decision making moment. I had one decision to make and one decision only. To go over to her, or not. Something, that night, made me pluck up all the courage I have, and walk over, and sit down, and introduce myself. Doing so, is something I’ll never, ever, in my darkest of days, regret, because it changed my life forever, and continues to do so.

Every day with Lucy was a happy one. Seeing her smile and laugh and chuckle, and, occasionally, hit me with pillows, made me happy, and those moments, those simple moments, are ones I have always, forever always treasured.

With Lucy, I learnt that love, true, absolute love, is the strongest thing on Earth. The strength of diamonds and steel could not compare to the love that I felt for her, and the strength that that love had. Even without her by my side, now, I still love her, and, even when I did not have her by my side back then, I always knew I’d be with her again.

Lucy died and went to heaven. Rosie died and went to heave. I died, and stayed on Earth, bound to the ground until my predetermined allotment of souls is collected. I know I’m doing a special job, and a job that needs doing because it is essential for the world as I know it, to survive. But, sometimes, despite this, I so dearly wish for a reprieve from it all. Sometimes, all I want is to collect that last soul and go up to heaven, where I belong, so I can be with my wife and daughter again. So I can say all the sorries that I never said, and never had to say because my wife and daughter understood me in completeness. I want to give all the kisses and hugs that I never gave to both of them, and should have been there to give. I want to meet them again so I can tell them in person how much I love, and have missed them.

And, to be honest, sometimes I miss my beautiful wife and darling daughter so much that it makes me cry. I sit or kneel, and weep, because, when I miss them to the point that my heart could burst, all I want is to be with them, to be able to touch, hug and kiss them, and to be by their side. When you love people that much, that you love them forever, that’s true love. I met my wife, and together, we created a daughter and brought her forth into the world. I count every second we’ve been apart, and know that every one of those seconds, as it passes, brings me a second closer to being with them again. I miss them, I miss my Lucy and my Rosie, and I always have, and always will, miss them, dearly, and, absolutely, so much.

Theatrical Muse: Week 126: Question 126

Wed, 31 May 2006 09:09:04 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 512

Write about mother (your own or someone else’s).

My mother always smelt like flowers, and flour. She always seemed to be arranging a bunch of flowers or cooking. Much like the women of her time, my mother, was indeed, something like the all American housewife. Our house was tidy, to a certain extent, and my father’s word was mostly law. I say things like that, because I didn’t exactly live in a typical household. My mother didn’t follow my father around like a lapdog, and even though she was something similar to the housewife image of the day, she never really fit squarely in. In our household, my mother was equal to my mother, in almost every way, something which I can regard as uncommon in the period I grew up in. He was still master of the household, but he had a second in command, and that was her.

I loved my mother, and I still do. I’ve ever stopped loving her, but don’t take me incorrectly there. Although some Freudian theories can be interesting, that’s not what I’m talking about. All I’m trying to say is that, I loved her, I still do, and always well. She was, and is, my mother, after all. I do miss her. I died, before both of my parents, even though the life expectancy at the time, worked against that fact.

Even when I passed the age of twenty, my mother always seemed like this big thing to be. She, along with my father, was one of the ultimate authorities in my life. Not that I always did what she wanted me to do, or asked me to do, but most of the time, if she wanted something of me, I gave it to her. And I say this to defend her honour and mine, she raised me well. No matter what I did in life, or have done in the afterlife, she raised me well, and I am a testament to that fact. I may not be perfect, but it’s an honest truth that she raised me well, very, well, indeed.

Sometimes, I wish I could go back to my childhood days, and relive them, with the knowledge of my previous past, so I could do it right. But just as soon as those thoughts come to my head, I am quick to shake them out of my head for, really, in all honesty, right deep down in my body, and mind and soul, I wouldn’t change anything for the world, or all the tea in China. I live my life as best I could, and my mother raised me well, so I was able to do just exactly that. I know that she always loved me, and forgave me for what I did, and, with that, that is all I need to say, because that is all that needs to be said. She was a lovely, caring, warm and wonderful woman, and I love her. Nobody can say I didn’t, because I know, in my heart, my mind, my body and my soul, that I always have, and always will.

Theatrical Muse: Week 125: Question 125

Sun, 07 May 2006 18:46:24 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 766

Who was “the one that got away”?

Stopping, the man picked up the old cotton nightgown that had been so carefully laid out on the bed. With just as much gentleness, he drew it upwards, and upwards, towards his face, and eventually buried all his features into the soft material, with it’s flowery pattern and heavenly scent. Heavenly, because it smelt like her, it smelt like, Lucy. Like roses in the sunlight, and sugar on pancakes, and sunflower seeds to feed to the birds, and roasted sweet potato with a side of beef and gravy and peas. That nightgown, smelt like everything he missed, and more, everything he desired, and more. He couldn’t become fully dead, just yet, he couldn’t get his happily ever after, or his eternal rest, or his reward, because upper management, and the rest of them, still wanted him to be down there. He was destined to remain on Earth until his allotment of souls was collected. And while he may have thirsted after the last one, sometimes, other times, he didn’t, as much, or, at all.

Laying the piece of clothing gently and carefully back down on the bed, the man slipped on his coat, put on his hat, and grabbed his satchel bag while taking something from the top of one of the nightstands by the bed. Grabbing his keys from a hook on the wall, he locked the door behind him.

One seemingly long car trip later, which involved about ten minutes of being stuck in traffic, he pulled into a spot at the Happy Time car park. Entering the building, Rube stood in the elevator for a few idle minutes, watching people go in and out, in and out, as it slowly climbed upwards. Two floors before the one he wanted, he reaped a woman, a favour that he owned a guy in natural causes. At least she’d been able to see a relatively happy face before she dropped dead of a heart attack. Myocardial infarction.

Brushing past George’s cubicle, the head reaper gave the young girl a solemn, but friendly “Hello Peanut”, and tipped his hat, much to her utter confusion. Other than her, nobody much seemed to notice him.

Locking himself in the photocopy room, Rube flicked on the light and put down the blinds completely. Staring at his adversary with a hardened, steely, determined gaze, he eventually approached the photocopier. Moving silently, the man slipped the old photograph out of one of the pockets of his satchel bag and unfolded it for what seemed like the hundredth, if not, thousandth, time.

It took a while, probably, most likely, close to an hour, or just a little bit over, before the reaper emerged from the photocopy room, victorious. With a small scale copious amount of sheets of paper carefully tucked into his bag, he had two more sheets grasped firmly, but gentle, between his fingers. On top of them, tucked under his thumb, was a photo of a smiling woman and a smiling man, a happy mother and father. Between them, sat a little girl who wore an unbridled, purely innocent, childish grin. They all sat behind a cake sitting on a table. A cake that was labelled Happy Birthday Rosie, with little flowers iced all over it. Except, the photograph was folded in half and turned over so, no one, absolutely no one, had any chance, remotely, of seeing it. The man hid the pieces of paper in a similar fashion, both turned so that the photos met each other in the middle, and it just appeared that he was holding two blank pieces of white photocopy paper.

After another stint, stuck in a traffic jam, Rube arrived at the cemetery, and put on a scarf before leaving his car. It was cold that day.

Crouching down in front of the graves, he held onto the two pieces of paper and the photograph, with one hand, and got out his wallet, from his pocket, with the other. Opening the wallet up, he slipped the photo inside, and closed it, replacing it in his pocket soon after. Taking one piece of paper, he placed it on top of the ground in front of his wife’s grave, and weighted it down with a number of stones, and did the same for his daughter’s grave. Kissing his hand, he brushed it over Lucy’s gravestone, and did the very same for Rosie’s. And then, with some tears in his eyes, he bowed his head and said a prayer. After a while, he got up, tucked his scarf tighter around his neck, said goodbye, and walked away.

Theatrical Muse: Week 124: Question 124

Mon, 01 May 2006 15:19:08 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 620

What was/is your childhood ambition?

I was born in the eighteen frickin seventies. When people were dancing around with long hair and marijuana filled cigarettes in the nineteen seventies, I was celebrating my one hundredth birthday. Back in the 1800s, you were lucky to be alive and well fed, with parents who loved you and had good jobs. I had all that, so I was a lucky kid, and, I guess, like any middle class kind of kid of my time, I wanted to be like my dad. Which I did.

My father could always stitch people up. When I was little, we used to get free sacks of potatoes, tomatoes, wheat, all those kinds of things. And he never had to pay for his hair cut, and people tipped their hats and nodded to him in the streets. When I was slightly older, and began to grasp the concept of different professions, I learnt that he was a Doctor. Now, I was still quite young mind you, and this, this amazed me to no end. To think, that someone could be so respected, so big, so powerful, and yet, so kind, gentle, happy and helpful, simply, just amazed me, and it just put me in awe of the man that I got to call dad, or pappy, as I was told I called him sometimes.

For a long time, I wanted to be a Doctor, just like my father. I knew I was kind, and good hearted, just like him. I also knew that being a Doctor, was a profession that brought in the money, and that made be interested all the more, because I wanted to have a safe future, away from the harm that I had yet to realise, at such a young age, really existed in bigger amounts than a scraped knee or a paper cut finger.

It was only when I grew up, and became a teenager, and was only a few years from finishing school, did I realise that I might not be able to achieve my dream after all. I mean, I could have become a Doctor, really, I could have, because I had the smarts and the personality for it, but something, something in me changed, and it suddenly seemed so far out of reach. And once I lost my full heart and faith in achieving that dream, it didn’t seem so desirable, just as desirable, anymore.

I can’t say I regret giving up on being a Doctor that much. Just a little bit, but not much, no, no, not much at all. You see, I look at it this way. If I had become a Doctor, I would have been a middle class or upper class man. And if I was a middle class man, I would have been on the verge of being on the upper class anyway. As such, I would have been in a totally different class than I was in the actual life I actually led. I would have been in a totally different group of people and leading a totally different lifestyle. That would have meant going to totally different places, living in totally different areas, acting a totally different way, and doing so many more things, totally differently to what I actually ended up doing because I didn’t become a Doctor. If I had become a Doctor, I know I wouldn’t have met Lucy, and then I wouldn’t have had Rosie, my special little girl, my lovely little Peanut. And I wouldn’t want that to happen, no, no, not at all, because even though I did end up robbing a bank and dying soon after, I led the life that I wanted to live, and that is all that matters.

Theatrical Muse: Week 123: Question 123

Sun, 23 Apr 2006 11:58:38 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 565

Perception: Generally speaking, how do you think others perceive you?

Now, now, that is, indeed, a difficult question. Not because I am not sure of how people perceive me, but because I consider myself to be perceived in a few different ways.

I think, for this, going through the reaping group systematically, one, by single one, will work best, because, otherwise, I’ll be trailing on forever, and I can’t really be bothered doing that. I’ve got cake, ice cream and freshly whipped cream waiting for me at home. Ok, Roxy’s place. And it’s chocolate cake, mud, chocolate cake, with chocolate icing and little chocolate flake things, with a cherry on top.

Starting with Mason. Mason, as we all know, is a fuck-up. Fuck-up is a hyphenate. Anyway, as for that guy, I think he likes me, somewhat, and I like him, somewhat, also. However, he also hates me to a certain degree, and is determined to disobey me. I think, sometimes, he considers me to be too bossy, even when I’m just giving him post-its and telling him to be there on time, possibly even dressed in a certain type of clothing. I don’t think that’s bossy, that’s just me being the head reaper of our group and telling him what to do, because he has to do it anyway.

Daisy, Daisy, Daisy. Daisy has issues she needs to sort out, problems with herself that she needs to fix. Just because I’m unsympathetic when she grumps on and on and on about chipped ice, or the thickness of her cream, doesn’t mean she needs to act grumpily towards me. But she does, and I think this air of general dislike is added to by the fact that I don’t, nor does anyone else, really acknowledge the fact that she once was, a movie, actress, type of person. To me, her past life, is, exactly that, her past life, and this afterlife, really, is what she should now be concerned with. Reaping, is now her priority, not making sure she looks all pretty just in case something extra, super shiny special happens. Which, in her world, in our world, probably won’t. If she doesn’t like me for giving her the cold hard facts of this being dead business, this afterlife, then that suits me fine, and she can deal with it.

Roxy, generally, I have no problem with. She’s sweet, and on occasion, nice, and she’s my second in command. I respect her, and we can leave it at that. As for how she perceives me, she likes me, and that should be enough.

Finally, we have George, otherwise known as Peanut. I think she likes me, for the most part, as do I to her. She can, however, be a bit tiresome and bothersome, from time to time, and, when I get angry at her, she gets angry back.. Understandable, in a way, but when George gets angry, she also gets a tad bit disobedient, and that never really works out for the best, for any of us. That being said, I enjoy her company, and, as a reaper, she’s generally on top of things. But we like each other, and, even though we may have our arguments, and I do worry that she might not be as ok as she could be, I know she can take care and fend for myself.

As for how I like myself. Heh, I like myself just fine.

Theatrical Muse: Week 122: Question 122

Sun, 23 Apr 2006 11:44:59 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 340

Close your eyes and think about what you’ve been missing in your life lately. It could be a person, pet, place, thing, occasion, feeling. Anything at all that you miss dearly.

The lavender.

Closing his eyes and putting his hands in his pockets, Rube was just aware of the slight prickle of the woollen scarf against his neck, and the way his cap kept in the heat on his head. He could feel the wind rushing in little wisps past his head, and, oh God, he could smell that lavender. He could smell that lavender, that wonderful, glorious, delightful, purely special lavender, that luscious purple flower.

Lucy had always liked lavender. When the little bush she kept inside the house grew a few flowers, she’d pick off some of them and put them in her hair. When he’d become a reaper, he’d often sent her bunches of lavender whenever he could, just for the heck of it. And to Rosie as well. He sent them both roses as well, on occasion.

George spotted the older man standing outside the gates of the graveyard with, a somewhat happy look on his face. Screwing up her face in puzzlement, she tried hard, very hard, to guess what he was thinking of. With Rube, you could hardly ever tell, and, if anything, you couldn’t go into very many specifics. You could only guess, just guess, and hope you were right.

“What you looking at?”

With a mildly startled look, the man’s eyes snapped wide open and he whirled around. Suddenly, with a small but silly grin on his face, he licked his lips and nodded towards the lavender bushes. She looked at him and smiled back and took a deep breath in.

“They smell nice.” the younger reaper said, still uncertain of why he looked so darned happy.

As the funeral party processed into the graveyard after the coffin, Rube and George joined them, occasionally tapping this person here and that person there.

He missed his wife and child and the happiness and company that they had both given him.

There was going to be severe food poisoning at the “after party”. The devilled eggs, the pasties, the sausage rolls and the party pies.

Theatrical Muse: Week 121: Question 121

Sun, 23 Apr 2006 11:28:21 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 152

Fortune: Some people have it, some people seek it, some claim to predict it, and some say that it favors the brave. Write a ficlette inspired by the word “fortune.”

It was snowing, and he hugged the baby tightly to his chest as he ran through the streets.

Why was he running? Because it was cold.

Why did he have a baby? Because she was his daughter. They’d been visiting a couple of friends of his, and now it was getting colder, and he was hurrying home.

But soon enough, he blew through the front door of his home just as fast as the wind was blowing outside.

Rube awoke to the intrusive prods of Daisy’s manicured fingers, and he sat up, shivering, but covered in sweat. Giving him an odd look, she peeled her other glove off and sat down across from him at the table.

“You dreaming Rube?” she said with an uncharacteristic amount of dedicated concern tinging her voice.

He grunted a response and waved down Kiffany.

“Orange juice and a little stack of children’s pancakes.”

Smile now, please.

Theatrical Muse: Week 120: Question 120

Sun, 23 Apr 2006 11:15:42 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 516

What is the most dangerous thing you have ever done?

Rob a bank.

Come on you stupid fucker, what do you want from me? Really, are you joking? Do you want me to tap and dance for you like some stupid looking street monkey who dances to polka music played by his greasy Polish friend? I don’ dance for no one, and you aint going to find out about that right now, because although I may be and have been, willing to talk about it, now is not one of those times, so if you’re looking for a rob the bank answer, you can fuck the hell off.

I look at myself sometimes, in the mirror. I study my eyes, my lips, the corners of my lips, my eyelashes. Sometimes I’m clothed, sometimes I’m semi naked, sometimes I’m fully naked, who knows. I look at myself, and I touch my skin, see the forming wrinkles and the wispy hairs that should have rotted away long ago from an age old corpse. At the very least, they should have aged some, but I haven’t aged since the day I died. I don’t change, I don’t grow any older or get any younger. I still have the same aches and pains I did when I was alive in the 1920’s. They don’t go away as I get older, they don’t get any worse or any more debilitating if they can be, because I don’t get any worse, I don’t get any older.

I touch my skin and sometimes it’s cold, and sometimes it’s warm. Sometimes I watch my brown crease in concern, and sometimes I’m just staring back at a blank face that is staring back blankly at me. Some of those times, I get angry, I want to shout and scream and hit things. Other times, I’m just a blank face, an unfeeling face, in a sea of mysteries and memories. When I get angry, sometimes I do go and hit people, I pick fights and we go at it like cocks. Not often though, rather rarely if anything, because I have to keep myself a mostly secret thing, because you don’t get away with being Rube John Sofer, when Rube John Sofer is already dead. Can you imagine, people looking at me and thinking I’m crazy, thinking I’m defiling a dead man’s name and, somewhat, good life, when I am that man, when I still am me? Weird, aye?

The most dangerous thing I ever did was to live. If my father had not done the deed with my mother, then I wouldn’t exist, I wouldn’t have grown up, gotten married, and had a child of my own. But I did, and, honestly, quite honestly, I’m all the better for it, because, if I had a choice, I’d do it all over again. Why? Why would I? Because I enjoy life, I actually, really, do, even if it can be a depressive pain in the ass sometimes. If I had to choose between living the life I lead, and still do lead, and never being born, I’d chose life. It’s dangerous, but, fucking hell, it’s fun.

Theatrical Muse: Week 119: Question 119

Sun, 26 Mar 2006 03:47:44 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 494

Did you ever intentionally make a complete fool out of yourself while fully realizing what you were doing?

“Come on baby.” Rube said, lifting up the younger woman from the deckchair on the apartment roof. A rattle made him look down at his foot and he briefly glimpsed the empty bottle of whiskey before he looked back up and tightened his grip on the figure in his arms.

“Don’t.” the sleepy body mumbled, the lone word slurring into itself. Truthfully, it was one of the only times he would ever call her baby. In the few years she had known the man, he had only done it a couple of times.

Pushing open the door, the reaper gradually made his way down to Roxy’s apartment, and, finally, when he had fished the keys out of his pocket and opened her door, he lay the woman on her bed. Carefully removing her shoes and socks, he pulled back the covers and then pulled them back over her, tucking her in. Going into the kitchen, he splashed some cold water on his face, chucked his cap onto the bed, and then went back up to the roof. For a few brief seconds, Rube watched the street party bellow, as young people danced in their leg warmers and other assorted brightly coloured fashion items.

It wasn’t her fault, no, no, it wasn’t her fault.

As a night, occurring somewhere around mid 1985, passed by, the man moved from the chair beside the other reaper’s bed, and then to a chair beside the window. When he got bored of sitting, he walked around, but hardly ever slept, only napping for a few minutes, if anything at all. It wasn’t that she could die, for she was already dead, but he didn’t want her to hurt any more than she already did, and already had to. He wanted to be with her, to protect her and guide her. So few years had passed since her death, and she was still fragile. Slowly, very slowly, but surely, getting better, but it would take time, a lot of time. He wasn’t even over his own death and it had been over half a century.

When the female reaper woke in the morning, with one hell of a headache, she found the man sitting there, one eye open, one eye closed. His face, which was blank, for the most part, cranked itself into a little smile as she stared sleepily at him. Nodding, he watched her back, and nodded a little more.

“You got the day off Roxy. Take care of yourself baby, and use it wisely, because I want you to be the first one in there after me. I’ll be back later, ta bring ya dinner.” Rube said, picking up his cap, and walking out the front door, making sure to pick up the list that lay just behind it, in the room, on his way out.

It was a beautiful, magic, tragic and upsetting life. And they were all the better, and all the worse, for it.

Theatrical Muse: Week 118: Question 118

Sun, 26 Mar 2006 03:42:45 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 549

What does your dream home look like?

The man sat down in the old wooden rocking chair on the wooden porch in front of his house. Sheltered from the sun by the porch roof, he rocked back and forth for a few seconds, cradling the guitar he had brought out with him in his hands. Taking in a deep breath, Rube breathed in all the smells around him, the trees, the fresh growing flowers, the wood. He especially liked the wood.

With only one story and a small attic, it was not the largest home, but it had four bedrooms and a bathroom, along with the necessary kitchen and front yard and back yard. It was suitable for him and his family, suitable, and, just, perfect. Maybe he might even have another kid one day, but, for the time being, he was content with just one.

Steadying the guitar in his hands, the man began to play a song, reminiscent of the ones he had played on the cattle drives not all that long ago. Where a man slept beneath the night sky, and drunk his head full of whiskey. The strumming, picking, and other assorted movements continued on, and, on, and on.

“Daddy!”

“Peanut!”

At once, the man stopped playing and put down his guitar beside the chair. Getting up, he didn’t even have to step the few steps forward and move off the balcony, because his daughter bounded up the steps and into his awaiting, open arms. Picking her up, Rube swung Rosie around, and around, and put her down with a large, extremely large, grin. Holding up one wait, he made his way over to his wife, gave her a kiss, and took one of the brown paper shopping bags from her arms.

Once all the shopping was packed away, and Rosie had had an afternoon snack, as Lucy made some lemonade in the kitchen, the very much alive man, picked up his young daughter and took her out to the porch.

“Have fun with Uncle Fred?” he said, with raised eyebrows, and she nodded. He was not talking about the Uncle of his childhood days, but Freddy, his cattle driving partner of a few years past. Not that long ago.

“Yes. He’s coming over for dinner!” she said, bouncing up and down in his arms, wriggling onto his lap as he sat down on the old rocking chair.

Picking up the guitar, the man helped his daughter hold it, and, together, they began to play a song, the same song he had been playing before. And the world continued all around them, and the sun set, illuminating the sky in a million different pinks, purples, reds and oranges.

“Do you mind if I go away Rosie?”

“To ride horses Daddy?”

“To ride horses most definitely Peanut.”

She looked contemplative.

“I’ll miss you, but ok. As long as it’s ok with Mommy as well.”

He nodded and together they continued to play.

He was going to go on a cattle drive, a real, absolutely real, cattle drive. God, he had missed them. But family came first in his world, and, as long as they were in agreement about it, he could go without worrying, that much, moreover, as much.

All a dream, all a dream, all a dream. It was all a dream.

Theatrical Muse: Week 117: Question 117

Sun, 26 Mar 2006 03:35:42 GMT

Name: Rube John Sofer

Fandom: Dead Like Me

Word Count: 341

At times, lots of people never tell us what they are really thinking. Who is the one person that you would really like to know what they are thinking (as far as how they feel about you), and why?

Daisy. I know what Mason thinks of, sex and drugs, I know what Roxy thinks of, because I’ve known her for so long, and I know what George thinks of, life and death. Daisy, admittedly, I do not know that real. That girl, she gets me right where it annoys me immediately, and, especially in the early morning, I don’t need any of her prissy shenanigans.

I had a book of paintings one day, and there was this one of this lady thinking. She was a pretty lady, and George said she looked like Daisy, and I said that Daisy wasn’t that contemplative. She said that I was wrong, because she lives with her, and watches her when Daisy doesn’t think anyone’s looking. George, Peanut, George, said that she’s sad about something.

Honestly, I want to know what she’s so sad about, if that fact is, actually, a truth. I’m old, older than all the other reapers in my group, I’ve seen ages come and go, fashions enter and leave, Presidents rise to power and fall from it. I’ve seen so many things, and, I am indeed, a sad, sad man sometimes. But Daisy, she’s often so happy and bubbly and chirpy to the point that it makes me want to yak sometimes. So, what I want to know is, what is she hiding?

But you mean about me, what she, or a person, thinks about me. I guess, I’ll still stick with Daisy. Mason sees me as a dominating master who he constantly has to fuck with, George is like that, but she’s got a better side to her as well, and, as for Roxy, Roxy’s Roxy, she’s different. Daisy, does not like me that much, I think, especially after I had her handcuffed to a chair, and she’s an actor, so, with what George says, I sometimes assume that she’s hiding things from people, from me. Things like, all of what she thinks about me, because, I know some of it comes through, but not always all of it.