Who’s Next?


“Come on, keep moving, we haven’t got all day. Who’s next?”

“I think that’s probably me.”


“Jones, Peter Jones.”

“Jones you say. Got you. Peter Jones, 36 years old, married with two kids. You’re late mate.”

“Late? I don’t understand.”

“You should’ve been here Tuesday. Today’s Wednesday. Where have you been?”

“I’m not sure…”

“When did you die Mr. Jones?”

“This morning, I think. I remember crossing the road outside my office, hearing the sreech of brakes then nothing. Next thing I know I’m in this queue.”

“According to my list you should’ve been knocked down by that lorry yesterday morning not today. Bloody typical of the Grim Reaper, always messing up his timings. Still you’re here now. Get you’re clothes off, you’re next.”

“But where am I going?”

“No idea mate. I just process things this end. My job’s to make sure you leave your clothes and any other earthly possessions here before you go down the hole. A bloke called Peter will meet you at the bottom and send you on your way.”


“No time for ‘buts’ mate. Just get yourself down the hole. If I don’t get this queue sorted I’ll be late home for my tea. Next!”


A 200 word story for VisDare


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