The Challenge: Draft a story of between 2400-2500 words long. Use the 4 prompts from the Storyteller cards the kids choose for me to use.
The Collector
The air was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and exhaust fumes as I stood on the edge of State Route 121, the relentless roar of traffic a grim symphony behind me. The little girl sat cross-legged on the grassy verge, her pink raincoat smeared with mud, her dark curls tangled and damp. She couldn’t have been more than five, her wide brown eyes staring up at me with a mix of curiosity and fear. The truck that had ended her life was long gone, its driver unaware of the tragedy left in his wake. The police would arrive soon, their lights flashing, their voices sharp with urgency, but for now, it was just her and me.
I knelt beside her, my cloak brushing the wet grass, the damp seeping into the fabric like a memory of the world’s grief. “Hello, sweetheart,” I said softly, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest, a hollow pang that never dulled no matter how many souls I guided. “I’m here to collect you.”
She tilted her head, clutching a soggy stuffed rabbit to her chest, its once-white fur now gray with mud. “Collect me? Like… like a toy?”
I smiled, though it was a smile tempered by centuries of witnessing moments like this—fragile, fleeting, and heavy with unspoken questions. “Not quite. I’m here to take you somewhere safe. Somewhere you belong.”
Her brow furrowed, and she glanced at the motorway, where cars blurred past in streaks of silver and red, their headlights cutting through the drizzle like fleeting hopes. “Where’s my mummy?” she asked, her voice trembling, small and sharp as a splinter.
The question pierced me, a knife I’d felt countless times. I find great satisfaction in my work—I do it well—but satisfaction is not ease. No one is ever ready for me, whether in the chaos of Gaza, the rubble of Ukraine, a sterile hospice bed, or crumpled in the wreckage of a car crash. They all expect a man, some hooded figure with a scythe, as if death were a grim patriarch. Heaven knows why; men cannot be trusted with such delicate tasks. Death requires precision, care, a gentleness born of understanding loss in all its forms. That’s why it’s me, always has been.
I extended a hand, my fingers pale but warm, a contrast to the cold she must have felt on that rain-slicked verge. “Your mummy’s not here right now, sweetheart. But I promise, where we’re going, you’ll be safe. You’ll be home.”
She hesitated, her small hand hovering over mine, her eyes searching my face for something—truth, perhaps, or safety. “Home? Like my house?”
“Not your house,” I said gently, my voice soft as the mist around us, “but a place where you’ll feel just as loved. Come with me, and I’ll show you.”
She took my hand, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so small, and we began to walk. The world faded—the screech of tires, the distant wail of sirens—until it was just us, moving through a soft, golden light that felt like the memory of a summer afternoon, warm and endless. This was my gift, my craft: to ease the passage, to make the transition gentle. I’ve done it for kings and beggars, soldiers and poets, children like this one, whose lives were cut too short. Each soul is a story, and I am its final chapter.
Her name was Amy, I learned as we walked. She chattered about her rabbit, Mr. Flops, and how she’d been chasing a butterfly near Millersylvania State Park in Olympia, Washington. “I didn’t mean to,” she said, her voice small, tinged with guilt. “I just wanted to see where it went. It was so pretty, with wings like rainbows.”
“I know,” I said, squeezing her hand, feeling the fragile pulse of her fading presence. “Sometimes we follow beautiful things, and they lead us places we didn’t expect.”
Her story was one of countless I’d collected over centuries. In Gaza, I held a young man who’d shielded his sister from a bomb, his last breath her name, his eyes bright with love even as they dimmed. In Ukraine, an old woman clung to her rosary, murmuring prayers as her village burned, her faith a flicker against the dark. In hospices, I’ve sat with those who welcomed me, their bodies weary but their spirits light, ready for rest. In car crashes, I’ve knelt in twisted metal, offering comfort to those lost in the sudden dark, their questions echoing Amy’s. Each carries the same weight—a life ending, a story closing.
As we walked, Amy’s steps slowed, her eyes tracing the golden light, now shimmering like a meadow under dawn, flecked with colors that danced like the butterfly she’d chased. “Is this heaven?” she asked, her voice soft with wonder, her fear ebbing like a tide.
I chuckled, a rare sound that warmed even me, though it carried the weight of countless farewells. “People call it many things—heaven, paradise, the beyond. I call it home. It’s where you’re meant to be.”
“Will there be butterflies?” she asked, clutching Mr. Flops tighter, her small fingers digging into the damp fur.
“Oh, plenty,” I said, picturing endless fields where souls like hers could run free, where butterflies wove patterns in the air. “And rabbits, too. Mr. Flops will love it.”
Her grin was a spark, bright and fleeting, and I felt a pang of satisfaction, sharp and bittersweet. This was my purpose—not glory, but moments like this, easing a frightened child’s heart. Every soul deserves a gentle guide, a voice to say they’re not alone. I’ve seen too many leave this world in fear, their hands clutching at life, their eyes wide with questions no one answers. But with Amy, I could offer peace, a small victory against the chaos of endings.
We reached a threshold, a shimmering door of light, warm and pulsing like a heartbeat. Beyond it, I sensed others—souls waiting to welcome her, their presence a soft hum of love. I knelt, meeting her eyes, seeing the flicker of fear still lingering. “This is where you go, Amy. You’ll be okay. I promise.”
She hugged Mr. Flops, then, to my surprise, threw her arms around me, her small body warm against my cloak. “Thank you, nice lady,” she whispered, her voice trembling with trust.
I held her, my heart—such as it is—swelling with an ache I could never name. “You’re welcome, love. Go on now.”
She stepped through, her pink raincoat a bright spot against the light, and was gone. The threshold closed, and I stood alone, the glow fading to the gray reality of the world. I brushed grass from my cloak, the damp clinging to my fingers, and prepared for the next call. There was always another.
Centuries ago, I didn’t grasp the weight of this role. Chosen by something ancient, not a deity or council but a force older than time, I’d been a healer in life, tending wounds in a village long forgotten. My hands had bound broken bones, soothed fevers, and wiped tears from faces that trusted me. When my own time came, I faced a choice: rest or serve. I chose to serve, to become the Collector, guiding souls home. I didn’t know it would span battlefields, hospital wards, quiet deaths, and violent ones. The task is endless, a tapestry of stories woven from every corner of existence, each thread a life I carry.
The world changes, but my work endures. In the 14th century, I walked plague-ravaged towns, fear clinging to my skin like damp ash. In the 20th century, trenches and bomb shelters stained my cloak with mud and blood. Now, in 2025, I move through cities, war zones, and highways, unnoticed by the living but felt by those I come for. They expect a grim reaper, a skeletal figure from medieval woodcuts, but they get me—a woman with gray eyes and a voice heavy with ages. My appearance surprises them, but my touch, I hope, does not.
I don’t judge the souls I collect. That’s not my role. I don’t decide who lives or dies, who’s worthy or unworthy. I guide, offering comfort where I can. Some fight, their desperation a raw wound that breaks my heart. Others surrender, their relief a quiet gift. Children like Amy are hardest, their brief lives raw with questions, their innocence a weight I carry long after they’re gone. Yet their trust is a fragile treasure, a reminder of why I persist.
After Amy, a call pulled me to a Seattle hospice. The air shifted, and I stood in a room with pale blue walls and wilting roses, their petals curling like tired hands. Arthur, a retired librarian, lay in bed, his breathing shallow, his hands folded over a quilt stitched with faded stars. His eyes, cloudy but unafraid, met mine. “You’re not what I expected,” he rasped, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“I get that a lot,” I said, sitting beside him, my cloak pooling like shadows. “Ready to go?”
“I’ve had a good run,” he said, his voice a whisper of paper pages. “Is there a library where I’m going?”
I laughed softly, the sound carrying a warmth I rarely felt. “If you want one, there will be. Come on, Arthur.”
His hand was cool in mine, and we walked through golden light scented with old paper and ink, a library of memories unfolding around us. I left him at a threshold of endless shelves, his smile lingering as he stepped through, and I returned to the world, the weight of his story settling into my collection.
The calls never stop—soldiers, teenagers, mothers—each a story, a weight I carry. I don’t tire like humans, but I feel their joys, sorrows, and unfinished dreams. I keep them, a collection no one else sees. Sometimes, I linger, watching the living laugh, fight, love, grieve. I see them chase butterflies or build fleeting lives. I don’t envy them, but I remember being one—feeling the sun, fearing the unknown. That memory keeps me gentle.
Another call came as night fell over Seattle, in a quiet suburb. Clara, a middle-aged teacher, lay in bed, her heart failing in sleep. I stood by her, my cloak blending with shadows. She stirred, her eyes meeting mine, surprise flickering. “You’re a woman,” she said, her voice faint but warm.
“Always have been,” I replied, offering my hand. “Ready to go home?”
She hesitated, her gaze lingering on a photo by her bed—a family, smiling in sunlight. “Will they be okay without me?” she asked, her voice breaking, tears welling in her eyes.
I knelt, my hand steady, my voice soft as a lullaby. “They’ll carry you in their hearts, always. And where you’re going, you’ll watch over them.”
Her fingers found mine, trembling but trusting. We walked through golden light tinged with lavender, her favorite flower, she told me. Clara spoke of her students, her children, her regrets—small things, like unread books or unsaid words. I listened, letting her unburden, my role as much confidante as guide. At her threshold, the light was soft, like a classroom at dusk, filled with the hum of young voices she’d shaped. “This feels right,” she said, a tear falling as she smiled. I squeezed her hand, and she stepped through, her silhouette fading into warmth.
The calls continued, each one a new weight, a new story. In a hospital in Tacoma, I met Javier, a young man barely twenty, his body broken from a motorcycle crash. His eyes were wild with fear, his hands clutching at the air as if he could hold onto life. “I’m not ready,” he gasped, his voice raw. “I have plans—college, my mom, a girl…”
I sat beside him, my cloak brushing the sterile floor, and took his hand. “I know, Javier,” I said, my voice steady but heavy with his pain. “Tell me about her. Tell me about your plans.”
He spoke, haltingly at first, then with a rush—his dreams of becoming an engineer, the girl who laughed at his bad jokes, his mother’s tamales on Sundays. His words were a lifeline, and I held them, weaving them into the light around us, now shimmering with the warmth of a kitchen, the scent of spices. His fear softened, not gone but quieter, as he realized he could carry those dreams forward, in some way, beyond the threshold. “Will she know I loved her?” he asked, his voice breaking.
“She’ll feel it,” I said, my eyes meeting his. “Love doesn’t end here.” He nodded, his grip loosening, and we walked to his threshold, where the light pulsed like a heartbeat. He stepped through, his silhouette strong against the glow, and I turned back, carrying his story with me.
Next, I was called to a war-torn city far from Seattle, where a mother named Amina knelt in the ruins of her home, her arms wrapped around her infant son, both taken by a missile’s blast. Her eyes were fierce, not with fear but with defiance, as if she could will herself back to life for her child. “He’s too young,” she whispered, her voice a raw wound. “He didn’t even have a chance.”
I knelt beside her, my cloak dusting the ash-covered ground, and reached for her hand, then her son’s tiny fingers. “You gave him love, Amina,” I said, my voice trembling with the weight of her grief. “That’s a life, no matter how short. You’ll carry him with you.”
She looked at me, her eyes softening, and nodded. We walked through a light that shimmered like a desert sunrise, warm and vast, her son cradled in her arms. She sang to him, a lullaby in a language I didn’t know but felt in my bones, its melody weaving through the light. At their threshold, the air was soft, like a mother’s embrace, and she stepped through, her song lingering as they faded.
Back in the world, I lingered by a quiet lake, the water reflecting a moon I no longer needed to see. I thought of Amy’s butterfly, Javier’s dreams, Amina’s lullaby. Each soul left a mark, a fragment of their light woven into my cloak, invisible but heavy. I remembered my own life—centuries ago, a healer in a village where the wind carried the scent of herbs and hope. I’d loved fiercely, lost deeply, and chosen this path not for duty but for love, for the chance to ease others’ pain as I once eased fevers. That choice bound me to this work, eternal and unending.
Another call came, this time to a nursing home in Portland. An elderly woman, Rose, sat in a wheelchair by a window, her hands clutching a faded photograph of a young couple dancing. Her breath was slow, her heart faltering. She saw me and smiled, unafraid. “I knew you’d come,” she said, her voice soft as a sigh. “I’ve been waiting.”
I sat beside her, my cloak brushing the linoleum floor. “Tell me about them,” I said, nodding at the photo.
She laughed, a sound like wind chimes. “That’s me and my Charlie, 1952. We danced every Saturday. He’s waiting, isn’t he?”
“He is,” I said, my voice catching, though I didn’t know if Charlie waited—only that the light would bring her peace. We walked through a golden glow that hummed with music, a big band tune from her youth. At her threshold, she turned to me, her eyes bright. “Thank you for listening,” she said, and stepped through, her silhouette swaying as if dancing.
The world called me back, its endless stories unfolding. I don’t tire, not as humans do, but I feel the weight of each soul, their joys and sorrows etched into me. I carry them, a collector of lives, guiding them home with a gentleness born of my own forgotten heart. My work is endless, but I do it well, for every story deserves its ending, and every soul deserves to be seen.
Word Count: 2452
Prompts: collect, woman, truck, soul.
Shirley
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