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Weekly Contest #376
Death was old. Born before dying was thought of. Death was just his name, and no one yet hated him or feared him. He lived atop a soft green mound. It was the highest hill in the land, though still quite small, for the hills had not yet grown up to be mountains. Every night, Death looked up at the sky. Dark, cold, and mostly empty it was. Only a single pale moon awoke each night, and she was sad and lonely. Birds graced the sun with their company each day, but none soared the night sky. Nor did twinkling stars brighten the dark. She lived in...
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