The Man Called Death.



                For some he was a myth, a story to tell those that would steal, that would lie, and to those that would kill.  Some called him the Hand of God while others said he rode on a black horse and was Death incarnate.  There was also talk that when the moon was high and full in a night’s sky, you could tell him by his glowing red eyes.

                The stories of the man grew as any tale of old would.  No one actually knew who he was.  No eyes had ever seen him that now lived.  Still the stories were told; the tattered hat, the dark and worn black duster, his pistol, which people had taken to calling the Hand of God, and of course the tattoo on his right wrist.  But again, no story could agree on just what was there.  Some would warn it was in a tongue not to be read by man, that to do so would set your eyes and tongue ablaze leaving you blind and unable to speak what you had seen.  Others had opined that it was perhaps a burn mark from gun powder, a scar that the man tried to hide.  But others would relate such a black spot as one would stories of the seas long ago, that to see it would always mean certain death.  No matter the telling, it was an ill omen and the only defining feature for the man himself.  A man that was told to be young and old, scarred or handsome, frightfully tall or average as any other man, a man that could be sitting right next to you or the man whom you’d know the moment you saw him. Continue reading