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He ran with wild abandon. The damp cement hall seemed to stretch on, every ten feet the slight hum of the low hanging lamps whizzed by. The roar of his beating heart competed with the rhythmic splash of each step, nearly deafening him.

It kept coming, never stopping, never tiring, threatening to consume him utterly. He glanced back to see, what he knew would be there, it was relentless. Looking forward, wham, double doors seemed to appear from know where. Momentum propelled him forward, as the impact sent him reeling. The doors swung wide, as if suddenly spitting out soured milk. A blazing white light blinded him as he fell hard upon floor. He scrambled quickly to his feet, turning to confront his doom head on. Staring at him was only a septic dull white wall, the doors that where there a moment before, where gone.

Suddenly the atmosphere consumed him, he heard the murmur of voices, mingled with the gaiety of a Strauss waltz. He quickly turned to be drowned in a sea of color. The large ballroom was filled with revealers out of a nineteenth century Viennese celebration. They where dancing, laughing and drinking champagne. There where groups of them cluttered here and there, engaging in frivolous talk. The music hushed and the dance slowed and then stopped, as all attention seemed focused on him. Those with champagne glassed raised them and then in one unifying voice they toasted him "Happy Birthday!". He began wading through the crowd toward a door at the far end of the room. His progress was slowed as the well wishing crowd swallowed him. Whoosh, turning he could see the dark hallway had returned. He knew the monster was coming. He fought the crowd, clawing his way to the exit. Screaming at them to move, asking them for help. Their mocking smiles jeered at him. Finally he made it to the door, the approaching horror growing. He tore open the door, revealing a black lifeless tunnel but he could see an end. It's light appeared warm and soothing, not cold and sickly like the ballroom. It beckoned him, promising salvation. He ran.

All he could hear was his breathing and the sound of horror, his breathing and the sound of horror, his breathing and the sound of horror. Then when icy fingers of terror seemed about to grasp his soul, he was reborn. Breaking from the dark womb of the hallway into the warm and embracing light. Collapsing with exhaustion, he falls upon cushioned soft green grass.

He opens his eyes, rising to his knees he looks around; ababbling brook speaks of renewal as the birds serenade him with a happy lullaby, he smiles. A rush of stank acrid air envelopes him, he turns, only to see Death's sickle rushing toward his neck.

FRIDAY AFTERNOON

"So after your head is severed from your body, what comes next? Do you go to hell or heaven? Do you feel any pain?" The doctor stared yearningly out of his posh office toward central park, his voice betrayed a glint of detached disinterest.

"What the hell do you mean doc? We've discussed this nightmare a hundred times " Jon's voice rose with increasing anxiety " There is nothing, you hear me nothing! I'm dead do you understand, he kills me and I am dead."

Doctor Lee turned to face his manic patient " Please Jon, It is my responsibility to constantly review the circumstance of your case. I must ask these question, in the outside chance the nature of your nightmare has changed."

Jon sat up in the couch " It doesn't matter doc" shaking his head slightly " for a year we've tackled this thing and now it's over. Sunday, at 7:33 am, the exact minute I was born, Death will come and take me.

"I understand your a writer Jon but the melodrama is out of place. Your thirtieth birthday will come and go and you will realize that this feeling of your impending death is nothing more than repressed anxiety about the aging process" the doctor paused, glancing briefly at his watch "aggravated by your current stint of writer's block." Rising from his overstuffed weathered leather chair " Well Jon your time is up. I am prescribing for you a night on the town. Take yourself out Saturday night and celebrate your birthday." The doctor moved to open his office door. Waving his hand slightly he gestured toward the exit.

"I got it doc, it's time for me to go." Standing, Jon straightened his crumbled cloths. Then headed to the waiting exit. The doctor stepped in front of the doorway. Placing his hands firmly on Jon's shoulder, he stared him directly in the eyes. " Listen I want you to call me Sunday morning. You'll see I was right."

Jon tried a smile " Yeah, right doc. I'll call you Sunday morning." Satisfied by Jon's response the doctor stepped away from the door. Jon nodded his head slightly and left the doctors office. The solid slam of the doctor's door jolted him slightly. He felt queasy and weak, his stomach churned, Jon had the feeling he would never be returning to his doctors office.

He opened the door to his luxurious Manhattan apartment. A rush of cold air hit his face. Even though fall had arrived in New York, he still had the air conditioner cranked on high. He had once told his therapist his most desired way to die would be to freeze to death. Jon found warm comfort in the cold.

The apartment was expansive, professional decorated and maintained. It didn't look lived in and he hated it all. The whole thing was the Idea of his agent, Monty. Four books on the Times best sellers list, had given Jon more wealth then he had ever dreamed or wanted for that matter. He wrote to exorcise the demons. Nobody could really understand that except Monty. In his tortuous angst his mentor had built a multi-million dollar literary empire. The man who had found him while judging a local writers competition when Jon was eighteen, had made sure his words where in hardback by the time Jon was twenty. When his twenty-first birthday had rolled around, Jon's first novel had been number one on the best sellers list for six weeks. Three more number ones and two commercially successfully movie adaptations had placed him among the published elite. Then it all went blank, the pen refused to release the demons. He closed the door and began walking to his bedroom. All the while removing his cloths. He fell on the bed naked and exhausted, sinking into sleep, he prayed that the cold would hold him and never let him go.

SATURDAY EVENING

He struggled with his tie. He couldn't help staring at the evening newspaper. The front-page of the literary section read Voice of his generation Jon Sumner gone strangely silent. On the eve of his 30th Birthday, rumors of nervous breakdown persist. The article went on to quote unnamed sources that claimed he hadn't turned in the first chapter of his new novel due in total nearly a year ago. The publisher instead of filing suit for the several million dollar advance had opted to place him in the care of a well-known psychiatrist. Their decision based on the fact Mr. Sumner had nearly fifty million books published world wide in thirty-six different languages. The unnamed source stated further " Jon Sumner is a prized literary possession and we, the publisher, feel it only a matter of time until Jon would once again return to his best seller form."

" Fuck you all! " His voice was so loud it shrilled. He savagely attacked the newspaper, tearing it to shreds, screaming incoherently. He fell to the floor weeping, " You don't know, none of you know." He continued to sob, " I'm going to die and you don't care. I never wanted the money you hear" he rolled onto his back shouting, " I don't care about the money or the fame, I just want to live. Do you hear me you son of a bitch? Live!" He curled slowly into a fetal position and cried.

Finally after a long while he rose. Going to the bathroom he splashed his face with cold water. Looking in the mirror, he smiled at himself but it looked irregular on his face. Tying his tie, he said aloud, " Doctor's orders Jon, let's try and have a good time." Turning off the bathroom light, Jon went to the closet and pulled out a fashionable sports coat he had purchased over a year ago but never worn. He stopped to glance at himself one last time in a full-length mirror. Tweed jacket, starch white shirt, Dilbert tie, slightly faded jeans and Adidas tennis shoes, he was ready. As he was leaving his apartment, he turned to look inside, he hated place but at least it was cold, bone cold.

The rain fell steadily as the taxi pulled up the elegant New York eatery. He paid the driver and got out, he stared for a moment at the restaurant, his umbrella taping on his leg. He sighed, as if having arrived at some great decision and entered the restaurant.

The Maitre d' stared at the unused umbrella and it's rain soaked owner. " No, No, No, this will simply not due." The puffed up penguin of a man moved to block Jon's entrance into the dinning room. " I am afraid we have no tables available for you sir " he motioned as if to magically brush Jon back and out into the street. "You'll have to leave right now."

"Jon is that you? " Turning both men could see the silhouette of a man and women standing in the entrance to the dinning room. Stepping out of the shadow the man's hand was extended, his face brimming with a smile.

"Good Evening Mayor " Jon said shaking the mayor's hand vigorously. Staring out of the corner of his eye he could see the shocked look of the Maitre d'

"I can't believe it, the wife and I were just discussing you at the dinner table. We read the article in the Times." The mention of the article sent a jolt of flush anger through Jon's body, he struggled to maintain his composure. " I just knew it couldn't be true" the mayor's wife chimed in. "That's right" nodded the mayor in agreement.

"No, No" said Jon with an air of mock joviality. " I assure you, I am perfectly fine. Fit as a fiddle." He paused for a moment, then as an after thought he added, "been writing like mad." He loathed social interaction. All he could think about was being back at home. Having only to deal with his disgust of the apartment and love of it's well working air condition.

Being a veteran politician, the mayor could sense one of his better known constituents growing uneasy. "Well Jon, I don't want to keep you waiting, plus the wife and I have to get to the big game." Patting Jon on the back he turned to face the Maitre d' "Phillip, see to it this man has the finest table in the house." The mayor and his wife wished Jon a Happy Birthday and departed the restaurant.

Jon felt a smirk growing on his face as he stared at the humbled Maitre d'. averting his eyes slightly downward "I apologize Mr. Sumner, I did not recognize you. You are of course welcome here anytime." With that he turned to lead the gloating author to his seat.

Jon sat down as the Maitre d' snapped orders to the serving staff. Fresh linens and silverware were place on the table. He ordered his favorites, Porterhouse steak cooked blood rare, baked potato with lots of sour cream. Peas, Corn on the cob drowned in butter, and a tossed salad with French dressing. The restaurant in honor of his birthday presented Jon with a complimentary bottle of champagne. He ate until he was so full he felt as if he would burst. Leaning back in his chair he closed his eye's, as his sense were awash in an overeating stupor.

"Excuse me" He opened one eye, had he fallen asleep, maybe he was snoring. "Excuse me, Mr. Sumner?" he felt a slight tap on his shoulder. He turned to see an oversize woman in a designer dress, dripping with gold and jewels. He squinted slightly at the overpowering site. "I'm sorry was I snoring?" He hoped he wasn't.

"No sir, I'm the one who should apologize for interrupting you. But you see, my husband is a big fan and I wanted to see, if maybe…." She hesitated. He knew what was coming next, the request for an autograph. When they paused Jon always obliged. He felt the pause reflected a certain understanding that an autograph was not something owed but an act of generosity on his part. Without waiting for her to finish her sentence. "Of course I would be delighted to sign an autograph for your husband."

The women face bloomed with excitement " Thank you, Thank you" she said repeatedly as she fumbled to retrieve paper and pen from her purse. He signed his usually trademark statement with signature:

Thanks for Being a Fan
Keep On Reading!
Warmest Regards
Jon Sumner

He knew it was positively corny, but it was simple and to the point and Jon liked it. " Is your husband here."? Jon scanned the room briefly, trying to guess which one might be her husband " I'd be glad to give this to him in person." The women looked as if she was going to burst from excitement.

"Oh my gosh yes, he's here. Right behind you there." She pointed directly behind him, toward the back of the room. Jon turned smiling and waving slightly and then froze. There taunting him was the robed skeletal monstrosity of death. Holding firmly to his sickle in the right hand, waving with his bleach boned left.

A cacophony of laughs assaulted him from everywhere. The world seemed to turn to gelatinous He struggled to turn and flee. He saw the face of every patron; they had turned grotesque and hideous. They laughed, they all laughed. He ran to the exit as quickly as he could, struggle to breath. He was sure he felt Death's lifeless fingers around his throat. He burst through the door of the restaurant following face first on the wet pavement. He turned to see the Maitre d running out after him. Jon sprang to his feet and began running. The man shouted after him "Mr. Sumner come back. I hope the service was satisfactory?" All Jon could hear was his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest.

He didn't know how long or far he had ran, he only stopped to wipe the blood from his eyes and forehead. He felt a gash on his scalp. It didn't hurt, the only thing he felt was an overwhelming sense of fear. He looked around and spotted an aging neon sign which simple stated "Adam's Tavern". It's seemed like as good a place as any to get out of the rain and rest, if even for a moment.

Adam's Tavern, looked as if it had been built shortly after his expulsion from the Garden of Eden. It was old and in general disrepair, but it had atmosphere. Thick with a mixture of cigar and cigarette smoke, floor sticky with years of spilt beer and smelling of an old brewery, Jon instantly feel in love with the Tavern. It was the kind of place where first names where known and last names discouraged. Jon took a seat at the bar and ordered a vodka and cranberry juice.

The Tavern was crowded but seemed unusually quite. All the eyes where focused on the two television sets located at opposite ends of the room. It was top of the second inning, Yankees and Braves where in the sixth game of the World Series. Neither team had scored. Jon downed his first drink and ordered a second and then third. With each consumed drink the memory of the restaurant became a little hazier. The Yankees rallied in the third to score three runs off Greg Maddux. The mode of the bar shifted from somber to celebratory.

Jon was fighting a balancing act try to remain on the stool, as he knocked back his sixth drink. The television camera panned from the field to the fans as the teams changed positions at the top of the fourth. Jon stared dismayed at the television screen; the image of Death was staring at him, holding a sign, which read "Happy Death-day Jon Sumner". His concentration faltered, sending him falling to the ground. He struggled to a standing position fighting off help from nearby patrons. The image of Death remained plastered to the screen. Screaming, " NO! " he picked up an empty glass and hurdling it at the television. Before the first television exploded, Jon was running toward the second with another empty glass in his hand. The patrons seemed momentarily shocked, the bartender jumped over the counter trying to place himself between Jon and the doomed television. The highball tumbler sailed toward the TV, as the bartender tackled Jon. The second television crackled, it's picture tube shattered. Jon fought screaming, kicking, biting, punching, trying to escape the clutches of those who joined in his subduing. An electric shock raced through his body, his muscles went limp, as someone used a handheld stun gun on him. He closed his eyes against the sting of blood, flowing from the freshly opened wound on his scalp. The world went black.

Jon didn't remember the police picking him up or the ten stitches he received at the hospital. His booking at jail was a milky dream. "Mr. Sumner, get up" he felt someone nudging him. He opened his eyes reluctantly; towering over him was a uniformed officer. The officer bent down to help him up. "Come on you've made bail. Your lawyer and agent are waiting for you". The officer helped Jim out into the waiting room. His lawyer stood like a statue, dressed in a two thousand dollar Armani suit. He was a full partner in one of the most powerful law firms in the country. Influence and power seemed to radiate from him. Seated nearby, was Jon's elderly agent Monty Shupak. He wore a blue and white colored Brooks Brothers sweat suit, his faced lined with worry. Monty quickly moved to relieve the officer of his burden. " It's okay Johnny, I've got you." Monty was the only person alive allowed to call him Johnny. The small-framed man seemed to have immeasurable strength as he gently helped Jon to a seat. Closing his eyes, he feel asleep.

He awoke sometime later in the headed leather seat of his agent's German sedan. Jon glanced out of the passenger window and noticed the streets seemed to be rather full of people. " What's time is it, there sure seems to be a lot of people out tonight". His voice was slow and sleepy.

"The Yankees, they won. They're now World Series champions." Monty glanced at his battered client. "You look like hell, you want to come stay at the house tonight. Laura put fresh sheets on your bed." He voice was laced with worry.

Jon turned to look at Monty. Jon's mother died when he was very young. Shortly there after, his father abandoned him to the New York state orphanage system. He met Monty and his wife Laura when his was eighteen years old. He instantly liked them both. Monty was writer of great critical acclaim but little commercial success. He took Jon under his wings and showed him the ropes. At the age of twenty, the Shupak's officially adopted him. Jon would have thought them as his parents rather or not they did. He had lived with them until he was twenty-six. "No thank you, tell Laura I'll come over and spend next weekend." He lied; Jon didn't think he would be a live tomorrow night more or less next weekend.

After a long silence Monty spoke " How's it going Johnny, I mean how's it really going?" He slowed pulled the car to the side of the road and stopped. " Tell me Johnny, is that doctor helping any?"

Jon smiled; reaching out he touched his agent on the arm " I'm fine. I know I went a little crazy to night but I was blowing out the cob webs." He looked forward at the window, staring at the full moon low in the horizon. It would be morning soon it would be all over. " In fact I'm writing again, next weekend I'll bring out the first two chapters to the house."

"Really, your writing? This is terrific news." He voiced echoed with excitement. " Take it slow and easy don't feel you have to right it all at once." put the car in drive and proceeded to Jon apartment. " Did you need me to get anything for you, maybe I can send one of those Columbia research assistants we've used before." Jon seat back and listened to Monty reel on about this and that. Monty seemed truly excited by the prospect that his young protégé had once again discovered the secrets to releasing his demons.

Jon watched as Monty pull away from the building. He was sad and disgusted with himself that he had lied to Monty. He stood there watching the fading lights of the Mercedes, as the anger welled up with in him. " I never told him," he said softly to himself. Turning he ran into the building. He stopped briefly to check the time. The ornate brass clock in the building foyer showed 3:30 am. He had four hours to write the world.

He ran the ten flights of stairs to his apartment. Ragged but determined he sat down at his computer and begin to write, first a letter to the editor about the article in the Saturday evening literary section. Then a letter to his father, telling him up the horrors he put his son through and then thanking him for what it had given him. The time whiled away and he continued to write. Next came the hardest thing he had every written. His letter to Monty and Laura, over emotion in his body poured forth. He wrote and wept, he told them how much he loved them, who they had saved him from his own damnation and given him a modicum of salvation. If every a child had the opportunity to choose who his parents would be, he would have chosen them and in fact he did. And then as he thought he had spent his last word, a story appeared. The dam had given way and he couldn't stop its flow. His fingers merged with the keyboard as Jon and the story became one.

He awoke to the sounds of his clock radio. Getting up he looked around, somehow in the proceeding few hours he had written several letters and the first two chapter of a story. He looked at the dresser mirror hutch and saw the clocks time, it read 8:31 am. He was a live. The allotted time of his death had come and gone and he was alive. Jon picked up the portable phone next to his bed and dialed his therapist number. "Hello" the voice of the women sounded groggy. "Yes, I'm sorry to bother you, Is Dr. Lee there. This is Jon Sumner." He struggled to stay calm. There was some silence and then " Yes Jon, good morning"

"I'm alive doc, do you here. I've started a new story. It's like the I've gotten a second chance." He was almost giddy with excitement. The doctor started in with his usual psychobabble. Jon was half-heartedly listening to the doctor's spill when the radio announcer pulled his attention away.

"Yes, that's right ladies and gentlemen, the New York Yankee's have been crowned this year's Major League Baseball's World Series Champions. Congratulation to the whole team, don't forget today is the end of daylight savings so be sure to set those clocks back one hour. The time is now exactly 7:33 am "

Jon turned in horror to see the clock. There in the mirror, he saw Death standing behind him, his sickle in mid swing.

"So you see Jon, all this energy you've spent worrying about your death was simply nonsense." The doctor paused waiting for his patient to answer. " Jon...Hello Jon... Are you there? "

The End

The above story is the Copyrighted © Creation of Tim Simons