Thanks! I was beginning to wonder if anyone read these.

It has a decent hook and kept my attention to the end.
Interesting enough for me to buy it.
Good work keep it up.
Author of: The Sea Going Hillbilly.
Robert Briggs

I’d had a lot of experience with death, but this time it hit close to home. In fact, it was knocking down the door, throwing bricks through the windows. My dealings with death were usually from afar. I felt a quiet respect for it, a silent admiration, having seen it tear through a room with all the subtlety of a tsunami, touching everyone, but claiming only one. I would stand back and let it do its work, knowing the futility in opposing such a force. Yes, death and I were old friends.
I was an escort for death throughout most of my adult life. She was typically well behaved in my company, speaking only when called upon and watching over me. I had introduced her to heads of state and local aldermen, family men and carousers, educators and the uneducated. She was just, bidding each of them farewell, with the same icy gaze.
Death was tolerant, never expecting me to reveal our relationship. We were content with a platonic association. It was a thrill each time we united, but it was also a business arrangement. I received ample compensation, while she satisfied her ravenous hunger for blood.
After a two-day fling with my old confidante, I returned home to find my wife preparing dinner. I delivered a rehearsed story about boring conferences, dull executives, and long meetings.
“You poor thing,” she said, “you must be exhausted. This roast still has an hour before it’s ready. Let me help you relax.”
“You are too much, honey. What would I do without you?” I asked.
She grinned, tucking her chin down toward her chest, and said, “You will never have to worry about that.”
Now I stare at my wife’s face one last time, her eyes empty, her cold hand in mine. My first thought was that death followed me home that day. The begrudging son of a fallen world leader or the widowed husband of a murdered teacher had no doubt vowed to exact vengeance. I had expected to fall victim to such a fate and had considered myself lucky no one had, to that point, taken from me what I cherish most.
My wife’s empty eyes frosted over with an icy gaze that I, myself, had never seen, but have certainly delivered on more than one occasion. It was then I realized that death hadn’t followed me home. She was already here waiting.
Eyes narrow, my wife looked from me to the crimson blade that had only seconds before been buried in my back.
“I know what you do,” she said. With a coldness only death could convey, she continued, “I have saved hundreds, by killing only one.”
Ironic, I thought. I had been a harbinger for death hundreds of time, but it took only one betrayal to rob her of such a loyal servant. No matter. She will find another carriage. Fickle as she may be, though, her thirst will never be quenched.