I did an exercise today to perform an extrication of my subconscious. I woke up early, had no coffee, and refrained from naps. I had a half cup of coffee after dinner so that when I sat down to write at 9 PM I was approaching delirious. This is fun writing. It’s not exactly not flash fiction, but it not exactly isn’t. It’s more like flash prose, but that’s fine. I’ll allow it. I’m Herschel Sterling and I’m here to help. Hello new follower Tim Wode, good luck with your new Substack.

The knock on the door is the Reaper. The Reaper is a sleeper. The Reaper hides his strength in the shadows. He shows you the great mysteries on your way out. It’s always his poor sense of timing.

You’ve got to be there. You can’t miss it. It turned in the wind and landed backwards and inside out. A heart rends, and another one is born. The legs wobble; it kicks. It will have its heights.

The shade at dusk is the Reaper. The Reaper is the sleeper. There is no doubt in his countenance. He’ll confirm your suspicions when it’s too late. The Reaper has a penchant for irony.

You throw your arms open to the sun at dawn. Your eyes have light. You fulfill hopes. You call the sun, you reflect the answer. You refract a gleam that is thorough. You get caught in that, and there are scars.

The foreboding storm is the Reaper. The Reaper is the sleeper. There is no relent in his torment. He’ll show to you your new clean slate. The Reaper is a stickler for punctuality.

There is a flourishing of will, posterity, and parades. These are acts of passion and purpose. The seeds are sown under. There is reaching and pinnacles. You lose balance at times in the tumult.

The depth of the deepest is the Reaper. The Reaper is the sleeper. His confidence violates you. He knows you will succumb. This is not predation. The Reaper is a product of nature.

Move swimmingly through the whimsy. There are performances and innovations. Experience is dancing. Falling snowflakes melding. There are roots to nourish and protect. You give way, it happens.

Hidden by the sun is The Reaper. The Reaper is the sleeper. He may not give warning. He suffers no consequence. The Reaper holds a linear hand.

There is celebration and sweet solace. There is heartfelt good will. Intentions aren’t empirical; only the results. The latter is delivered. Dispersed throughout the land. A promise is conjecture.

Frigid outer space is The Reaper. The Reaper is the sleeper. His entry is a meteor. He’s responsible to nothing. The Reaper is honesty.

The Sleeper is inconspicuous but hides a profound power. The Sleeper hangs from trees and waits to fall inside your collar. The Sleeper is the creeper who waits behind the tree.

The Sleeper owns the darkened corners and the wall that guards the well. The Sleeper walks so quietly that dogs don’t even hear. The Sleeper is not determinate. It’s not ambivalent.

The Sleeper burrows like a tick, and rides a body down. The Sleeper nags like tingly skin, beneath a raw, dry sun. The Sleeper is a mold that’s growing in the walls. The Sleeper follows you home after you’ve been infirmed.

The Sleeper is the Reaper

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