Rolling The Bones

I was, quite literally, up a tree. For me, the Grim Reaper, this was embarrassing.

Hands—the villagers called him Gambling Hansel, but I knew him as Hands—had tricked me, and I only had myself to blame. And here I was, sitting in a pomegranate tree, unable to deliver souls to the Underworld, however much they were ready to go. He thought he was a hero, not seeing the cost: the old folks whose minds had gone, the relentless pain of the incurably ill, the suicides walking around with holes blown through the back of their skulls.

Hands came out of the cottage, wearing his customary smirk.

“That scythe must be getting heavy,” he said, snickering.

I was tired of the situation; Hades wouldn’t speak to me, Charon missed his tips, and even Cerberus turned his heads away. I could still commute to the Underworld, but couldn’t set foot on Earth.

And I was tired of Hands. Three pomegranate fruits hung nearby; I threw one and clocked him on the head. The next glanced off his shoulder. He yelped, and I plucked the last one.

“The next one takes your balls off. Your choice.”

“All right, all right,” he grumbled. “Come down.”

Once on terra firma, I stretched my legs; I’d spent a long, weary time among the boughs.

I looked at him—God, he was smug—and asked:

“Want to roll the bones?”

“Say what?”

He really was dumb. I sighed. “Dice. Roll the dice. You want a game?”

“No, I’m going to the pub.”

“The owners went to the Antilles for the holidays, remember? Wanted to escape the gloom of winter.”

“Oh. Yeah. I forgot.”

No you didn’t, moron, I just made it up. But ’twas good enough: he led the way into the hovel—which reeked—and we sat.

“There’s no wine left,” he complained.

“I’ll take care of that.”

A bottle appeared on the table between us, startling Hands.

“Whoa. How’d you do that?”

“Plenty of wine at funerals.”

“Seems … disrespectful.”

“Everything connected with death belongs to me.”

“If I’d known about the wine, I might’ve let you loose sooner.”

I poured, he took out his dice, we played, he mostly won—or I let him think so—until one die rolled off the table and shattered.

“Huh,” he said. “Never had that happen before.”

Of course you haven’t, idiot. You’ve never played against Death before.

“Guess we’re done, then,” he continued.

“Not necessarily. I have my own,” I said, taking out a pouch.

“Play using your dice? Nope.”

“Whyever not?”

“There’s a saying that you can’t cheat Death. Doesn’t say he can’t cheat you.”

That was astute, for Hands.

“Up to you, if you want to quit.”

“Well … okay. One more game.” He shook the dice out of the pouch. “Kinda small, aren’t they? Where’d you get ’em?”

“Here and there.”

“They made of ivory?”

“No …” Bone, ivory, what’s the difference?

He threw. I followed.

“Guess you’ll be getting back to your trade, now you’re out of the tree.”

“I expect so.” Cerberus would forgive me, soon enough.

He shook the dice, tossed eleven, and crowed. “Looks like you lose.”

“I have one more throw.”

“You can’t match my score.”

“Unless I roll Midnight.”

“Midnight?”

“Boxcars. Twelve. Then I get another throw.”

“You making up rules now?”

“You only ask that because you’re winning.”

“Fine. Go ahead.”

And twelve it was. Twice.

“You win,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Tell me something—down below—how strict are they? Seems like the pickings would be pretty lush.”

“Thinking about gambling in the afterlife?”

“That’s the plan.”

“You’ll find out tonight.”

“What?”

“I haven’t been honest with you. In reality, the pub owners didn’t go away. As usual, you went, got blotto, and fell in the creek on your way back. Cracked your skull at midnight, precisely. And well, here you are.”

“Damn. So you’re carrying me off in … five minutes? You can’t do that. I need to replace my dice.”

“Take mine.”

“You sure? Thanks,” he said, pocketing them.

“Don’t thank me yet,” I answered, before picking up my scythe and lopping off his hands in two clean strokes. No rust had defiled my scythe; it wouldn’t dare. “You’ll never roll again.”

Before he passed out, he asked why.

“I need new dice myself … and they’re made from knuckles. Human knuckles.”

He bled out quickly; I’m not sure he heard that last part.

All bones belong to me, by rights.

BIO: Carlotta Dale lives in Los Angeles, a city she adores from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, in a house that’s essentially an oversized cabinet of curiosities. She still uses adverbs—sparingly—and her novelette, The Parrots Come Again, is available on Amazon (Alien Buddha Press). Dale has also had short stories published in Punk Noir Magazine, Pistol Jim Press, Literary Garage, Alien Buddha Press, and Bristol Noir. She can be found on Twitter @carlottadale38 and on BlueSky @carlottadale.bsky.social.