Hi this is just a short story I wrote for my Expressive Arts GCSE exam (Which is like a mix of art, drama, music, creative writing, film, dance etc basically you are given a theme and make something creative) The theme of this was 'Supernatural' (or maybe it was Paranormal i cant remember the exact word) But yeh so I spent ages attempting to think of something and started watching the show Supernatural for ideas....best decision and worse decision i'm now obsessed and dying wait for the new series oh my feels...but yeh i really loved the whole horsemen thing in series 5 so i decided to do my own twist on the 4 horsemen of the Apocalypse! My final piece included drawings to go with this in a book however of course i can't have them on here. But yeh, I am pretty proud of this so i thought i may as well upload it! Never uploaded anything that isn't fanfics before so yeh...I hope you like it! If so please do vote and comment it would mean the world to me! :) 

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Don't Fear The Reaper

"When the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature saying, "Come." I looked, and behold, an ashen horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him. Authority was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beats of the earth"

Revelation 6:7-8

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Death - a thing of which all the living have a shared fear; a fear of the end, of simply ceasing, a fear of the darkness beyond life. Yet, in reality, there is no need to be afraid of me; we are not much different, you and I. We all have our roles to play, and we all have our choices to make, and I am nothing if not reasonable. I bring down the curtain on many lives each day to allow room for the new. And the world revolves around change and renewal – frankly without me the whole system would fall apart.

In a short time you will call this the 'war to end all wars'. How misguided you are. You will mourn each small life I have claimed in its name, but in truth this war is nothing special, apart from the scale – that's a little grand I'll grant you; but it's not really that different from those that have gone before, and of course it won't be the last. If anything is certain in this world it is that humanity will always diligently heed the call of War, and I will be left with the allocating and the cataloguing – the paperwork, if you will.

Out of all those with whom I'm forced to work, I must say I find War the most disagreeable. He takes tremendous, childlike joy in sparking the smallest thing into a bloodbath without a second's thought to all the extra, unnecessary work it brings me. It's not as if the living, as a community,don't spend such a lot of time dying anyway without his involvement.

Oh no, look; talk of the Devil (not literally obviously, I try to keep away from him – people assume we get on famously but we really don't). That's him, War. I'd know that jaunty swagger-amongst-the-suffering anywhere. He's loving all this. Time for a hasty exit. Oh, Lucifer's breath! He's seen me.

****

A middle aged man in a Major's uniform, slim and smart, moved briskly along the line.

"Coo-ee. Death! Ah, Death! Fancy seeing you here" the soldier said, sarcastically. "Come, join me." he said, beckoning the hooded figure into a small alcove. Death sighed; his opportunities for a swift exit had been limited and now he was trapped.

"Must I get into that cramped little space with you?" Death asked. "I'm rather busy, as you might imagine".

"Yes you must, because they can see me out here." War said, nodding to a group of men cowering a little way along the trench that were giving him odd glances, "And as they can't see you, I can't have it said I've gone as mad as Kitchener's poodle, talking to myself!" retorted War before sighing dramatically. "I do not understand why you keep forgetting that."

"Your insistence on keeping me up to my eye sockets in work, perhaps?" Death said, with an exasperated tone. "I do have other work to do you know. Just because there's a war on doesn't mean people don't need to be dying in other ways, though I'm sure that never crosses your mind. I need to make time for all the accidents, illnesses, murders and those that have just out-stayed their welcome, and then there's all the work the other two bring me. Where have they got to anyway? Making a nuisance of themselves somewhere no doubt."

"Pestilence is in Africa; you know how he likes it there. Famine is usually joined at the hip with him much of the time but I managed to drag him away for a bit; he should be somewhere around here, actually." War said, glancing sideways as a group of men passed the alcove, talking amongst themselves. "In fact, if you do see him tell him to up his game a little - these men are hungry, yes, but I want them starving."

"They have resorted to eating rats." Death pointed out.

"Nothing wrong with rat. Tastes like chicken, I hear." War said. Death sighed and shook his skull slightly.

"Anyway", Death said, "What are you doing here? And what's the thinking behind the Major's uniform? I would have thought it a little low-ranking for you, is it not?"

"Au contraire Death dear - see what I did there? 'Au contraire', 'cause we're in France? Oh, never mind. No, Major's just perfect: high-ranking enough to get into influential places, but low-ranking enough to slip away unnoticed when I need to. You know the sort of thing: a quiet word of misdirection in a General's ear here, a subtle, yet catastrophic suggestion to a Field Marshall there – all helps keep things moving in the right direction. Well, the wrong direction actually; you know what I mean. I'm a Major on the other side too, but it's pronounced 'My-Your' – has a nicer ring to it, don't you think?"

"I try not to think too much at times like this, especially about you War." Death replied sullenly. "I just get on with the work. If I thought too much about it I may want to reconsider my position, as it were."

"How is it all going?" War asked.

"How unusual of you to take an interest in the work of others" Death mused. "Well, with this much to do it's really all rather more haphazard than I'd like I'm afraid. Take that group there" Death said, pointing to the small huddle of men that had been watching War pass by earlier. "I'll take the tall one and the short fat one; no time for more thought or creativity at this stage. I've pencilled them in for Tuesday: gas attack for the fat one, sniper for the tall one –occupational hazard of being something of a beanpole I suppose. One a bit messy and unpleasant, the other quick and easy, but, well, one has to have a bit of variety. I did give a little more thought to the other one though – he's a third son and I've had the other two, so he can die in bed and I'll see him in, let me see ....." Death turned several pages in his notebook with a bony finger. "....ooh, 1990" He said, with a note of surprise. "Lucky chap".

"Have you got much on your books, as it were, at the moment?" Death inquired casually. War always seemed to have a finger in some pie or other.

"I've still got that nice little job in Mexico – you know, the revolution? Yes I'm thinking of stringing that out for ten years or so. And I've not long finished two short jobs in the Balkans, but I think I'll be back there – fertile ground for a war or two I'd say, and such nice food. Then coming up I'm planning a few years of genocide in Armenia. Greece and Turkey have never got on so I'm stirring things a little there, Britain will be back in Iraq and Afghanistan (which I might do again later if I like it), and there's plenty more. There are some good old fashioned civil wars on the horizon too, and I'm building-up to a big one in Russia; did I mention they were going to have a revolution as well? There's always something to look forward to, isn't there?" War said, smiling at the thought, and Death tutted slightly. "So, yes, I've got my hands full. Standards to maintain and all that, and you know I take pride in my work." War trilled. "Nineteen in the last five years and another twenty one planned until the end of the decade. Never been a time when there wasn't a war going on somewhere, and I hope there never will be. And bless them, they think it's all their own work."

Once War got going it was difficult to stop him, but by this point Death was not listening. He had begun making notes in his book with a stubby pencil, quickly slipping out of the alcove slightly as another group of young soldiers, no older than 17, passed by. He touched most of them lightly on the shoulder but they continued to chatter between themselves, oblivious to his presence. Death got to the last few and raised a bony finger: "Eni, Meeni, Myni, Mo...oh, I shall just save the ginger one! You see? " he said turning to War, "This much work leads to simplistic choices and it's not how things were meant to be. When God gave me this job She wanted thought, creativity, variety, style, not 'Eni, Meeni, Myni, Mo' and life and death decisions based on having an endangered hair colour!"

War hardly noticed Death speaking to him and went straight back to his theme. "These things can take ages to set up but they can be usually be relied on to keep themselves going for a while with just a little helping hand here and there. There's no limit to how stupid, or ambitious or bloodthirsty people can be is there? I'm not saying it's easy – but look at this one – they just couldn't wait could they? Years of naval rivalry – not a new idea I know but still one I like to bring out every now and again – in-bred royal families, a sprinkle of nationalism here and there, the promise of distraction from trouble at home. Oh yes, this one took some work, but all the ingredients were there in the build-up."

Death raised an eyebrow. "I see you still had to go back to the Balkans though didn't you, to take the spark to the kindling. Not very original."

"Anyway," War added, "You only had one Arch Duke to take, and you nearly messed that up. The first assassin bailed, and then they hit the wrong carriage! If Princip hadn't been at that sandwich shop at just that moment he'd have not had his shot at old Franz Ferdy would he? Years of behind-the-scenes effort and you nearly let him go!"

"I knew which one you wanted", Death said, a little put-out, "but there were a lot of carriages – it can get a little confusing you know." War scoffed and rolled his eyes slightly. "Anyway," Death continued, "it might be said that you haven't been 100% successful yourself. You haven't thought this modern warfare through at all have you? I mean, I know inventions aren't really your department but have you noticed how few horses there are around here now, at least compared to the old days? The Four Motorcyclists of the Apocalypse just isn't the same is it?"

War grimaced slightly. "Yes, well I do think this may be one of my last ones with horses." he said, "Although I think there's a bit of fun to be had with cavalry against heavy infantry at some stage, or against this new thing we're calling a 'tank'. That's a scream. I miss the old days sometimes though: swords and shields and all of that – so much more....visceral."

"By which you usually mean 'messy', and it's me who has to wade through the mess" Death added solemnly.

"Well, must be off" War suddenly announced, cheerily. "There's a massive bombardment coming in ten minutes, shells, gas, the whole lot, if my instructions have been followed on the other side. Of course I've convinced someone over here that it'll be all quiet until tomorrow. Keeps things bubbling along nicely!"

And with that, the seemingly insignificant figure of the Major slipped out of the alcove and disappeared around a bend in the trenches, and was gone to spread chaos somewhere else.

*****

As I was saying, of all beings I have encountered in this endless life, if you pardon the expression, he is by far the most frustrating and irritating. All of this, this carnage, it's all a game to him. He doesn't seem to realise every little whisper, the slightest move, sets in motion a mountain of work for me. He never thinks about the consequences of the things he starts, never has done, never will.


Anyway, he said there was shelling coming; I really must deal with these 'customers' as I'm encouraged to call them these days.

Now, that first group there: all of them, I think; yes. Second group, if I can just...squeeze by: you....you....and, yes you, the young one, sorry. Oh, and the messenger boy; a little poetry in that one I think. No time to do that whole battalion on the far side, so they'll have to just have a sweep of the hand. They couldn't all survive - people would think I was neglecting my duties; there'd be talk. But in this mess they can feasibly all die.

I'm tired of the grand gesture though; it's indiscriminate, but that's modern warfare off to a tee –indiscriminate. There's just no time for the more measured approach anymore; it's getting harder to take pride in one's work. Take a nice medieval set-piece battle, for instance; you could get round the night before, plan your work, make proper choices. And the English Civil War – I seem to remember one time those Cavalier fellows in the fancy hats were sat around for a colossal dinner when the other side attacked – you could work things out in advance. "All the diners please; form a line on the right take a ticket and I'll be opening up your allotted gates shortly. Yes, you can keep your hats". But wars now, well, now there's a chance of dying at any time, so there's no let-up in the work; Gas, snipers, sudden shelling - all extra work that you can't plan for half as well as you could in the old days.

Now, is there anyone in this hut? Ah, yes, you. 19? Younger? I might let him finish this letter he's writing. You see? Time, effort, a little drama and a little poetry - that's how to do it. There's no point being an omnipresent metaphysical being if you can't have a little style. Let me see...What are you writing young man?

Dear Mam..."

Usual stuff about missing home, but being alright, not to worry, be home soon, blah, blah. Your usual cheery trench-camaraderie nonsense. Oh, now what's this bit?


"Words can't describe how sorry I am to have missed the birth of my boy. I hope he's well and I'm sure you and Sally are looking after my little lad. Will you tell him his Dad loves him? He needs to know that; even though he's never seen him, his Dad loves him more than anything. Tell him I'll see him one day soon, when this war is over, when we have secured a better world for him to live in..."

Your Father is here, dear boy, because of that fool I am forced to work with, and because of your species' willingness to follow the little leads and prompts he's been giving you since you came down from the trees. There's no higher purpose here I'm afraid, young fellow.

"I'm sorry I'm not there to help with the farm this spring. Are the flowers out on the banks yet? And did you manage to fix that barn door in time for the lambs? Are there lambs yet? There must be by now. James will be devastated; lambing has always been his favourite time of year. Have you heard from him recently? Last I knew he was somewhere near Ypres. If you hear from him tell him I miss him."

James...Ah yes, the brother, ah sorry about that, I took him a few weeks back, one of the first victims of gas if I remember correctly.

  "Spring has brought some relief from the bitter winter I suppose, although the weather's funny here and it can go cold sometimes for no reason, like just now in fact".

Ah, yes, I do tend to have the effect on people, amongst others.

"Archie says it's Death walking among us - silly beggar"

Does he now? Better keep an eye out for him - can't have people spreading rumours like that. Anyway, come on now, we can't sit around here all day chatting. Not that you can hear me. Time was when I'd have walked in here, looked you up in the Book, made a decision, tapped you on the shoulder and been off for the next one without a thought. War calls it 'going soft' but I've seen so much...well...so much Death. Funny, I just can't seem to make up my mind with you. What's so different or special about this one? His son, let me see....oh, quite far on in the Book, and yes he's going to be quite someone if we go in one direction, and an infant death if we go in another - time for that later. But the Father's a blank, a free choice. Why should I spare him? I expect many of those men in the battalion outside had children, wives, parents and siblings that will mourn them, why should this man be spared any more than the others? It's nothing personal you understand - each one is just a fleeting professional relationship. Just need to reach a little closer...

"I miss you all, Mam. I miss your pies and the smell of wet dog, even the clanging church bells – you know how that used to drive me mad. Archie says he thinks it will all be over soon; says he can sense it. You know I'm not the superstitious sort but I hope he's right.

Yes, in a way my boy he may be, in a way.

"Don't worry about me though Mam; there isn't really much happening over here at the moment, mostly we all just sit around and talk about coming home. I'm doing alright, really. Just give my love to Sally and tell her I'm writing to her soon too. Kiss my boy for me. And don't worry - it wasn't all done by Christmas like they said, but I'll be home before you know it.

Your loving son, Tom."

Oh, the shelling's started. Yes, yes, 'Gas! Gas! Gas!' we can hear you. 'Masks on'. Now, the question is, do I let you find yours in time my young friend?