Today's Word: Placate


In the center of the Plaza of Pride stood Nerl of Plint, a poor bean farmer who had died not ten minutes before, having run afoul of a mother bear.

"How did I get here?" asked Nerl of no one in particular since there was no one around.

"You died," said a thick, deep voice behind the farmer.

Nerl turned and found a skeleton dressed in a hooded shroud. Tall it was, probably near seven feet, and yet razor thin like a poorly stuffed scarecrow.

Nerl was not afraid. "Where's your scythe?" he asked of Death.

"I quit carrying it two hundred years ago. It's just not stylish these days."

Nerl nodded. He gazed around the empty plaza.

"Why did I come here?" he asked.

"You always wanted to visit the Plaza of Pride. And this is the best time, when you're first dead. You can't see the living folk, so the place isn't so crowded."

"So you grant wishes? I never knew that."

"No, Nerl, I'm just placating you for the moment."

"Oh?"

"Well, you do remember how you cheated Ronel the swineherd out of his ten acres that time, don't you?"

Nerl swallowed.

"I'm to be punished."

Death shrugged. "Six hundred years in the third tier of Hades, nothing too terrible. After that you can work your way up for good behavior."

"Is the third tier hot?"

"Oh, no. It's filled with poison oak and you'll be naked."


-- david j.