The hapless Sir Kevin was determined to prove himself just as capable as the other noble knights.
Finally, after much pleading, he was assigned the role of maintaining order in a remote village no one else could be bothered to visit, because it was so far away and difficult to get to.
Upon arrival, he observed from a distance that the inhabitants were in the middle of a celebration, dancing around the village square, so absorbed in their revelries, that none of them had noticed a small cabin was on fire, deep in the woods.
He could hear someone inside, faintly calling for help, and immediately saw a chance to perform his first heroic deed.
He swiftly dismounted his horse, and after securing it to a nearby tree, he leapt into action.
He kicked in the door with his boots, then fought his way through the flames, until he found a frightened old woman cowering in the kitchen, who he quickly dragged to safety.
At which point, she began cackling, before disappearing in a puff of smoke.
And he decided not to mention to anyone, that shortly after that, the village was only inhabited by frogs… 🐸😎🐸
The little girl was shivering as she weaved through the wet street. She only remembered what her mother said: ‘Wait here till I’m back’. But after several hours, she had to move under the shade, avoiding the rain. The market was still quiet, and most stalls were still closed. She thought she was lost. She feared her mother’s wrath if she found out she had moved.
Then she saw him, kneeling down at the end of the alley. He had picked up a scarf. The scarf was wet and dirty, but she recognized the knitted patterns. It’s her mother’s.
Why would he have her mother’s scarf?
She walked towards him slowly. As she got closer, she noticed his glowing skin. He donned a thick coat and a scarf himself, but his face and his wild hair were uncovered. He looked up and smiled as he saw her.
She wanted to ask if he’d seen her mother. She must find her way back to her waiting spot, otherwise her mother was going to be very mad at her. Then she saw someone on her back, on the wet street. He had picked up the scarf from this person.
She wanted to ask why her mother’s scarf was there. But as she stood in front of him, she’d forgotten the words. She watched as he covered the girl’s pale face with the scarf, her eyes closed and her body still.
He reached out his hand, palm opened, inviting her.
Later, they walked side by side, her little hand in his. She didn’t have any scarf with her, but she was no longer cold. He told her to call him Kev, and he would guide her home.
Ok, so I slept on it - which usually works wonders - and it suddenly popped into my head fully formed on my second mug of coffee.
Crossover, huh? Well, let's see if we can arrange that for you, Sire...
---
[25-05-03; 200mg of Kev; I actually - sorry - had to go precisely 100 over par with this one, but I hope you'll think it was worth it...]
---
They say your passing, and your afterlife, depends entirely on your own beliefs about it all…
---
In his final, translucent moments, Terry became lucid.
He found himself home again, surrounded by his beautiful family.
“I’m Terry.”
She smiles and squeezes his hand, with a sprinkling tear.
“I was a writer.”
Another tear falls. She catches her breath. “Yes, darling. You wrote wonderful things. Made millions of people smile. Helped them believe that, at least for a while, life is good, life is worth living.”
That’s when the door suddenly bursts open.
“G’day! Not late for the party am I?”
They all turn as one with startled gawks at the tanned, howling-haired intruder. Whether he sported a hangover or a comedown, wasn’t entirely clear.
He checks his digital watch. “Is there a Terry in the house?”
“Who the hell are you?!”
“Kev. Kinda death-god, sorta thing. Soul ferryman, et cetera.”
“But you’re an Aussie!”
Kev shrugged.
“Well you could at least be mildly helpful and wait outside! This is a poignant final moment!”
Kev shrugged again.
Terry, however, laughed himself to death.
It was the irony of it, you see. Because it’s what he would’ve wanted.
Everything suddenly vanished.
All mind-haze cleared. That terrible brain fog gone forever. Eternal lucidity. Terry felt fresh and young again.
Beneath a calm, clear sky enveloped by the lilting symphony of a dawning chorus, strolling together along a wide, smooth-grassed avenue lined with gently swaying forest.
Terry glimpsed a strange, white building in the distance.
“What is that place?”
“Oh, that’s the Club-Ow!”
The god of death suddenly got whacked in the head by a golf ball.
A Penfold 57, to be specific.
“So it is true,” Terry grinned, with his very first chuckle of the Afterlife. “It is indeed a good walk spoiled…!”
Oh man, it is... I just returned from reading an article about Sir Pratchett's last tweet... The afterlife gained a fine soul that night - our loss... And that last line about golf being a good walk spoiled came from Mark Twain. He and Sir Pratchett must be having a blast playing with the mashie nibllet crowd.
Funny, sad, and beautiful, a wonderful tribute to departed friends of the pages
I woke up this morning realising I'd actually missed an extra trick - like (and I hope you didn't mind this aspect) making Kev an Aussie (it was your description of him that made me immediately think of a bronze-tanned Aussie surf-dude sort of bloke).
By making him an Aussie I can add the joke 'I come from the land down under'. (referring to both Australia and the underworld of course).
It's obviously a bit late now to edit it here on Substack but I'll edit my own copy here on my computer, so the dialogue would go 'But you're an Aussie!'
Kev shrugged 'I come from the land down under, mate.'
I think this completes the little sketch nicely.
Was also thinking we could definitely all contribute our own little storyline for this (or another character/setting) something like once or twice a month and see where each person takes it. That would be great fun.
I recognized what was going on because of my daily dealings with a dear man who is struggling with dementia... I recognize the bittersweet reintroduction to his family at the beginning of your story. My fil forgets who I am once on a while. The fact that you can take such a tragically sad subject and turn it on its ear until it becomes comedy... well, I think that's a sign of a great writer. This one is good, it will be taking up residence in my brain...
Sir Pratchett's stories were always so wonderfully absurd and sweet. I do miss him. Only 66 when he died, I'm going to be 65 this year.
Yes, absolutely. I wanted to make it poignant and bittersweet, and introduce the humour - 'it's what he would have wanted' after all. I think Terry would've liked it. In fact if he were still here I think he'd love joining in these prompts, as they unfailingly elicit such gems.
Kevin leaned against his Mustang, black trench coat flapping in the ether breeze. His shades glinted even in the ghostlight — Ray-Bans, naturally. He lit a cigarette, because rules didn’t mean much when you were the God of Death. Souls shuffled behind him like confused extras in a Duran Duran video.
“Alright, souls, chillax,” he said, exhaling smoke shaped like tiny coffins. “You’re not in Footloose anymore. This is the Netherzone. I'm Kevin. Yes, that Kevin. Your cosmic usher to the Other Side.”
A girl in leg warmers and a torn Purple Rain tee stepped forward. “Wait, are we, like, dead?”
Kevin nodded slowly, flicking his ash. “Bingo, princess. You bit the big one. Now you’re headed to the Dead Poets Society.”
He pulled a boombox out of nowhere and hit play. “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” echoed across the spiritual plane. The crowd got misty-eyed.
Kevin strutted through them like a GNR Axel Rose solo — cool, confident, a little tragic. He saw it all: broken dreams, mixtapes never returned, hearts left on answering machines. He felt it, man. He suffered, in that deep Gen X way.
“Where are we going?” asked a yuppie with a Walkman still clipped to his belt.
Kevin cracked a half-smile. “Depends. Some of you are headed up, some down, some are caught in an Eternal Breakfast Club situation — stuck in detention ‘til you figure your crap out.”
He reached for the sky, snapping his fingers. “Thriller” started up, and the souls danced — some badly, some like pros—the void pulsed neon.
“This is your final mixtape,” Kevin said, fading into black. “Make sure you don't fuck it up.”
And with that, the Netherzone glowed to life, as Death—— the coolest soul around-- rode off in his Mustang into the dark night.
300 words on Kevin, the collector of golfers' souls
Kevin thought he looked sharp in the golf costume required by the country club. They required a shirt with collar, socks, shorts with no holes or tears, and shoes without metal cleats. To complete the look he had purchased a hat which also helped to cover the small horns on his head, a symbol of his status in the underworld. He had been assigned to play with a threesome which needed a fourth in order to start. They rode in the cart to the first tee, and began the game. They played fairly evenly, within a stroke of par on each hole. Kevin tried not to outplay the others, which as a god he could easily do. One of the players, Brad, let it be known that he was playing to become the club champion which would get him a trophy and a parking spot right in front of the clubhouse. So, they agreed to play strict rules. Kevin had observed one of them using a foot wedge to get out of the rough, but said nothing. That was reason enough to claim the guy’s soul, so he was one to the good, so far. Another one grounded his club in the sand trap, strictly illegal, so he claimed that guy’s soul as well. That left the would-be club champion, one soul to go. They were facing a pretty long shot and Brad’s ball was in some high grass making a fairway wood impossible to use. Brad asked Kevin what club he recommended. Kevin said he would use a 1 iron. Brad said, “Are you kidding? Only God can hit a one iron,” referring to a comment made by Lee Trevino many years ago. “I’d sell my soul to land a 1 iron on the green.” “Done,” said Kevin.
Maybe it was just because I had a busy day at work, or maybe I can't write about other people's characters. Looking forward to reading what everyone else did with Kevin!
Lucille didn’t expect her final breath to smell like exhaust fumes and burnt rubber. She closed her eyes shut upon impact as steel curled inward, gripping her body. A minute passed by. Slowly she opened them again—no blood, no wreckage. Just a man in flip-flops.
“Hey, Lucille!” the guy beamed. “Rough end, huh? Wanna walk with me?”
Lucille was confused. “Am I… dead?”
“Yup. Officially and permanently.” He flashed a badge from his neon tank-top:
Kevin, Soul Concierge.
Division for Escorting All Departed. (D.E.A.D.)
They strolled down the overpass, only now the traffic was gone, replaced by a path lined with lights and salsa music.
“You’ll like it,” Kevin said. “I just added a roller rink to the afterlife. You skate?”
Kevin taps the mic. A quiet settles over the shore of the In-Between, where the moonlight curves like vinyl grooves over the sand.
“Alright folks,” he grins, “tonight we’re going acoustic-electric-spiritual. You got your reincarnation forms stamped? Good. Let’s vibe.”
Backstage, Janis is arguing with Freddie over who gets the second set. Bowie mediates with glitter diplomacy. Prince just smiles and plugs in. No encores. Just eternity.
Out front, new souls lounge in hammocks strung between time. Everyone’s glowing—literally—lit from within by the memory of music and the strange comfort of knowing they’ll live again, eventually.
A nervous man clutches his paperwork at the gate.
“I’m not on the list,” he mutters.
Kevin glances down. “Oh, right. You opted for the soul-rest loop. We’ll get you in next round. But you can hang backstage for this one. The dog’ll show you.”
Three heads bark in agreement.
Tonight, the Dead sing not of endings, but of what remains: rhythm, joy, and the echoes we leave behind.
There couldn't be a worse time for burnout. Kevin, the God of Death hadn’t fulfilled his quota, and now this malaise threatened to make him fail. He had to do something.
A gym workout to boost his endorphins? Nope.
Extra-strength vitamin-infused water? Nope.
Sex? Possibly.
But his job didn’t do a lot to boost his popularity among the ladies.
And that was it, Kevin realized. He was tired of being feared. Tired of always being the bad guy. He made a quick assessment in the mirror. Complexion just this side the color of dough, hair too spiky, eyes too fiery.
A little makeup. Some tonsorial changes. Contacts. And he was a new god. Kevin the Good. All he had to do now was cap those sharp canines and find a girl.
“Keviiiin!” the voice boomed over the party music.
Kevin vaulted over the DJ booth and dove under the table. Knees to chest, face calm, soul screaming.
“Oh hey Kev, where you been, dude?” said Tony, sipping something neon.
“Tony,” Kevin whispered, “keep it down.”
“You hiding from your brother? He’s calling you. Real mad.”
“I know, Tony. That’s why I’m under a table.”
“What’d you do this time? Last time he bent you like a pretzel.”
“Don’t remind me. He bent me so far back, I was smelling my own ass for a month. I still accidentally hold in my farts.” He shuddered.
“Your brother is a master,” Tony laughed.
Kevin opened his mouth to say something, then it hit him. “Dude, where’s the Pope?” He shot upright from under the table.
“The what?”
“The guy in all-white! I left him with you at the door!” Kevin had been assigned to guide the Pope to his brother. A whole afterlife feast had been planned. Trumpets, doves, eternal breadsticks and a literal angelic choir. The works.
“Ohhh, that guy. Chill dude, by the way. I gave him to Penny.”
Kevin’s eyes widened. “Penny? The one who thought Saint Peter was a rock band?”
Tony shrugged. “She said the guy had ‘holy energy.’”
“Great. The Pope’s probably microdosing in the parking lot.” Kevin groaned.
A fog machine hissed. A voice echoed: “Body of Christ, my dudes!”
Kevin turned. The Pope was on the dance floor, shirtless, glow sticks in both hands, riding someone’s shoulders, chanting in Latin. Someone had drawn abs on him with a Sharpie.
Kevin entered the world with a bellow of laughter and a swirl of hilarity. His mother had refused to identify his father, but the midwife was pretty sure that he wasn't mortal - the baby boy's beautiful bronze skin and glowing golden eyes kind of gave his ancestry away, not to mention the explosion of long, wild, black hair already crowning his infantile scalp. She couldn't help chuckling as she handed the continuously giggling bundle of joy to his mother - his enthusiasm for life was infectious!
Kevin's childhood was as happy as his birth. As an infant and toddler, he never cried, and greeted each day with howls of glee. Every second was a celebration, every day a tornado of merriment. He hated getting tucked in at night, it was if he felt that life was a party that should go on and on, and he bopped around until he dropped in exhaustion.
He knew that there was something special about himself. As he grew older, he consulted with the old wizard, who dubbed him "Kev the Mildly Helpful," and sent him out to perform good deeds... but they never really seemed to turn out the way he'd hoped. And the happiness began to leak out of his soul.
So he fumbled along until one moonlit night, he finally found his father. He'd met some undead folks in the cemetery and discovered that they weren't so bad... in fact they were a lot of fun. After he'd raised his mug to toast his new friends, the gentleman zombie in the top hat took him aside.
"Kevin, I have something to tell you. I am not a mere zombie. I am the God of Death. And I am your father. You have passed my test, and I am very proud of you."
It took Kev a second to settle down, but the zombie's ale was excellent so it didn't take him long to adjust to his new reality. "So I'm not Kev the Mildly Helpful?"
The God of Death beamed down proudly at him. "No, son. You are Kev the Future God of Death... that is, if you would like to become apprentice to your old Dad. I'm thinking of retiring someday."
"Oh, awesome, Dad! Party on!" And so Kev began his training for his future profession.
Thank you! Everyone came up with some super cool Kev adventures, but I thought it might be fun to go with an origin story. Plus Kev made such a cute, happy baby! 😉
It was like that scene in the Marx Brothers movie where Groucho was staring at himself in the mirror. Only it wasn’t a mirror.
Kevin the God of Death had become slightly numb to his duties, namely acting as doorman ushering fresh stiffs into the after party. But this threw him for a loop. He was looking at himself.
Kev, the new inductee introduced himself. To himself. “Sick slides.”
“Lookin’ good yourself, I must say. But you can lose the sword here. Zero tolerance policy.”
“But…”
“Didn’t do you much good in the real world now, did it?”
Kev sighed. “Guess not. Never thought I’d be here so soon.”
“What was it that got you? The zombies? I noticed you fraternizing with them yesterday. They can turn on you real fast.”
“Nah. Distemper.”
“Dog bite?”
“Rabid squirrel.”
With that the therapist interrupted Miguel’s reverie. “That’s all the time we have for today I’m afraid. But we are making real progress.”
Miguel yawned
“I’m serious. This Kev/Kevin merger thing seems to mean you have combined your subconscious with the alternate personality you’ve been calling Jon the writer. That’s big.”
Miguel could recognize some cause for optimism, but he had a question. “What about the other 200?”
It was a special day in the afterlife. .Kevin even thought to comb his wild hair The special guest who was coming was Jimmy Buffet and all his undead Parrotheads. That will be one big party, ,Kevin bought to himself...
I'll get some zombie beer and some ghostie chips and let the party begin.!
Jimmy. and his friends came with their flip-flops on . They had some trouble wearing them since they were another dimension now. Jimmy was his old self,singing songs and cheering everybody up ..
Once again Kevin got to have fun with the undead until they drifted on to the afterlife because they were dead ,you know.
But Kevin was already making plans for the Grateful Dead to arrive at any moment .💀☠️
PROMPT: KEVIN
THE KNIGHT
The hapless Sir Kevin was determined to prove himself just as capable as the other noble knights.
Finally, after much pleading, he was assigned the role of maintaining order in a remote village no one else could be bothered to visit, because it was so far away and difficult to get to.
Upon arrival, he observed from a distance that the inhabitants were in the middle of a celebration, dancing around the village square, so absorbed in their revelries, that none of them had noticed a small cabin was on fire, deep in the woods.
He could hear someone inside, faintly calling for help, and immediately saw a chance to perform his first heroic deed.
He swiftly dismounted his horse, and after securing it to a nearby tree, he leapt into action.
He kicked in the door with his boots, then fought his way through the flames, until he found a frightened old woman cowering in the kitchen, who he quickly dragged to safety.
At which point, she began cackling, before disappearing in a puff of smoke.
And he decided not to mention to anyone, that shortly after that, the village was only inhabited by frogs… 🐸😎🐸
Microfiction - About Kevin, the God of Death
===
The little girl was shivering as she weaved through the wet street. She only remembered what her mother said: ‘Wait here till I’m back’. But after several hours, she had to move under the shade, avoiding the rain. The market was still quiet, and most stalls were still closed. She thought she was lost. She feared her mother’s wrath if she found out she had moved.
Then she saw him, kneeling down at the end of the alley. He had picked up a scarf. The scarf was wet and dirty, but she recognized the knitted patterns. It’s her mother’s.
Why would he have her mother’s scarf?
She walked towards him slowly. As she got closer, she noticed his glowing skin. He donned a thick coat and a scarf himself, but his face and his wild hair were uncovered. He looked up and smiled as he saw her.
She wanted to ask if he’d seen her mother. She must find her way back to her waiting spot, otherwise her mother was going to be very mad at her. Then she saw someone on her back, on the wet street. He had picked up the scarf from this person.
She wanted to ask why her mother’s scarf was there. But as she stood in front of him, she’d forgotten the words. She watched as he covered the girl’s pale face with the scarf, her eyes closed and her body still.
He reached out his hand, palm opened, inviting her.
Later, they walked side by side, her little hand in his. She didn’t have any scarf with her, but she was no longer cold. He told her to call him Kev, and he would guide her home.
So sweet and sad....
Sadly, I am better at writing sad plots.. I tried two different comedic Kevins but didn't quite work out...:P
This one is more sweet than sad. Kev is a kind conductor to the afterlife...
Yeah.. this is the introvert Kevin. Miguel's therapist would be able to confirm once they got the complete list....
😂
Ok, so I slept on it - which usually works wonders - and it suddenly popped into my head fully formed on my second mug of coffee.
Crossover, huh? Well, let's see if we can arrange that for you, Sire...
---
[25-05-03; 200mg of Kev; I actually - sorry - had to go precisely 100 over par with this one, but I hope you'll think it was worth it...]
---
They say your passing, and your afterlife, depends entirely on your own beliefs about it all…
---
In his final, translucent moments, Terry became lucid.
He found himself home again, surrounded by his beautiful family.
“I’m Terry.”
She smiles and squeezes his hand, with a sprinkling tear.
“I was a writer.”
Another tear falls. She catches her breath. “Yes, darling. You wrote wonderful things. Made millions of people smile. Helped them believe that, at least for a while, life is good, life is worth living.”
That’s when the door suddenly bursts open.
“G’day! Not late for the party am I?”
They all turn as one with startled gawks at the tanned, howling-haired intruder. Whether he sported a hangover or a comedown, wasn’t entirely clear.
He checks his digital watch. “Is there a Terry in the house?”
“Who the hell are you?!”
“Kev. Kinda death-god, sorta thing. Soul ferryman, et cetera.”
“But you’re an Aussie!”
Kev shrugged.
“Well you could at least be mildly helpful and wait outside! This is a poignant final moment!”
Kev shrugged again.
Terry, however, laughed himself to death.
It was the irony of it, you see. Because it’s what he would’ve wanted.
Everything suddenly vanished.
All mind-haze cleared. That terrible brain fog gone forever. Eternal lucidity. Terry felt fresh and young again.
Beneath a calm, clear sky enveloped by the lilting symphony of a dawning chorus, strolling together along a wide, smooth-grassed avenue lined with gently swaying forest.
Terry glimpsed a strange, white building in the distance.
“What is that place?”
“Oh, that’s the Club-Ow!”
The god of death suddenly got whacked in the head by a golf ball.
A Penfold 57, to be specific.
“So it is true,” Terry grinned, with his very first chuckle of the Afterlife. “It is indeed a good walk spoiled…!”
Oh man, it is... I just returned from reading an article about Sir Pratchett's last tweet... The afterlife gained a fine soul that night - our loss... And that last line about golf being a good walk spoiled came from Mark Twain. He and Sir Pratchett must be having a blast playing with the mashie nibllet crowd.
Funny, sad, and beautiful, a wonderful tribute to departed friends of the pages
Yeah - I was hoping people would understand the references. Crossover heaven lol!
I missed that but it’s giving the whole story another awesome level! I love that
I woke up this morning realising I'd actually missed an extra trick - like (and I hope you didn't mind this aspect) making Kev an Aussie (it was your description of him that made me immediately think of a bronze-tanned Aussie surf-dude sort of bloke).
By making him an Aussie I can add the joke 'I come from the land down under'. (referring to both Australia and the underworld of course).
It's obviously a bit late now to edit it here on Substack but I'll edit my own copy here on my computer, so the dialogue would go 'But you're an Aussie!'
Kev shrugged 'I come from the land down under, mate.'
I think this completes the little sketch nicely.
Was also thinking we could definitely all contribute our own little storyline for this (or another character/setting) something like once or twice a month and see where each person takes it. That would be great fun.
I recognized what was going on because of my daily dealings with a dear man who is struggling with dementia... I recognize the bittersweet reintroduction to his family at the beginning of your story. My fil forgets who I am once on a while. The fact that you can take such a tragically sad subject and turn it on its ear until it becomes comedy... well, I think that's a sign of a great writer. This one is good, it will be taking up residence in my brain...
Sir Pratchett's stories were always so wonderfully absurd and sweet. I do miss him. Only 66 when he died, I'm going to be 65 this year.
Yes, absolutely. I wanted to make it poignant and bittersweet, and introduce the humour - 'it's what he would have wanted' after all. I think Terry would've liked it. In fact if he were still here I think he'd love joining in these prompts, as they unfailingly elicit such gems.
Mind you - maybe he is watching...
That would be nice... ☺
I love it! Terry Pratchett, perhaps?
Hopefully, some of you will get these references, This was a fun microstory to write.
____________________________________________________________________________________________-
Kevin leaned against his Mustang, black trench coat flapping in the ether breeze. His shades glinted even in the ghostlight — Ray-Bans, naturally. He lit a cigarette, because rules didn’t mean much when you were the God of Death. Souls shuffled behind him like confused extras in a Duran Duran video.
“Alright, souls, chillax,” he said, exhaling smoke shaped like tiny coffins. “You’re not in Footloose anymore. This is the Netherzone. I'm Kevin. Yes, that Kevin. Your cosmic usher to the Other Side.”
A girl in leg warmers and a torn Purple Rain tee stepped forward. “Wait, are we, like, dead?”
Kevin nodded slowly, flicking his ash. “Bingo, princess. You bit the big one. Now you’re headed to the Dead Poets Society.”
He pulled a boombox out of nowhere and hit play. “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” echoed across the spiritual plane. The crowd got misty-eyed.
Kevin strutted through them like a GNR Axel Rose solo — cool, confident, a little tragic. He saw it all: broken dreams, mixtapes never returned, hearts left on answering machines. He felt it, man. He suffered, in that deep Gen X way.
“Where are we going?” asked a yuppie with a Walkman still clipped to his belt.
Kevin cracked a half-smile. “Depends. Some of you are headed up, some down, some are caught in an Eternal Breakfast Club situation — stuck in detention ‘til you figure your crap out.”
He reached for the sky, snapping his fingers. “Thriller” started up, and the souls danced — some badly, some like pros—the void pulsed neon.
“This is your final mixtape,” Kevin said, fading into black. “Make sure you don't fuck it up.”
And with that, the Netherzone glowed to life, as Death—— the coolest soul around-- rode off in his Mustang into the dark night.
Perfect purgatorial Breakfast Club reference! Love it.
And your description of Axel Rose: 'cool, confident, a little tragic.' - equally perfect!
Thank you. As you can tell, I'm an 80s girl
Ditto!
300 words on Kevin, the collector of golfers' souls
Kevin thought he looked sharp in the golf costume required by the country club. They required a shirt with collar, socks, shorts with no holes or tears, and shoes without metal cleats. To complete the look he had purchased a hat which also helped to cover the small horns on his head, a symbol of his status in the underworld. He had been assigned to play with a threesome which needed a fourth in order to start. They rode in the cart to the first tee, and began the game. They played fairly evenly, within a stroke of par on each hole. Kevin tried not to outplay the others, which as a god he could easily do. One of the players, Brad, let it be known that he was playing to become the club champion which would get him a trophy and a parking spot right in front of the clubhouse. So, they agreed to play strict rules. Kevin had observed one of them using a foot wedge to get out of the rough, but said nothing. That was reason enough to claim the guy’s soul, so he was one to the good, so far. Another one grounded his club in the sand trap, strictly illegal, so he claimed that guy’s soul as well. That left the would-be club champion, one soul to go. They were facing a pretty long shot and Brad’s ball was in some high grass making a fairway wood impossible to use. Brad asked Kevin what club he recommended. Kevin said he would use a 1 iron. Brad said, “Are you kidding? Only God can hit a one iron,” referring to a comment made by Lee Trevino many years ago. “I’d sell my soul to land a 1 iron on the green.” “Done,” said Kevin.
Brilliant! Love it! And that quickness of the last line there was exquisite!
Maybe it was just because I had a busy day at work, or maybe I can't write about other people's characters. Looking forward to reading what everyone else did with Kevin!
I have trouble writing other people's characters too so I understand that :))
Lucille didn’t expect her final breath to smell like exhaust fumes and burnt rubber. She closed her eyes shut upon impact as steel curled inward, gripping her body. A minute passed by. Slowly she opened them again—no blood, no wreckage. Just a man in flip-flops.
“Hey, Lucille!” the guy beamed. “Rough end, huh? Wanna walk with me?”
Lucille was confused. “Am I… dead?”
“Yup. Officially and permanently.” He flashed a badge from his neon tank-top:
Kevin, Soul Concierge.
Division for Escorting All Departed. (D.E.A.D.)
They strolled down the overpass, only now the traffic was gone, replaced by a path lined with lights and salsa music.
“You’ll like it,” Kevin said. “I just added a roller rink to the afterlife. You skate?”
“I haven’t since ‘82.”
Kevin winked. “Perfect. You’re already timeless.”
AFTERLIFEAPALOOZA
Kevin taps the mic. A quiet settles over the shore of the In-Between, where the moonlight curves like vinyl grooves over the sand.
“Alright folks,” he grins, “tonight we’re going acoustic-electric-spiritual. You got your reincarnation forms stamped? Good. Let’s vibe.”
Backstage, Janis is arguing with Freddie over who gets the second set. Bowie mediates with glitter diplomacy. Prince just smiles and plugs in. No encores. Just eternity.
Out front, new souls lounge in hammocks strung between time. Everyone’s glowing—literally—lit from within by the memory of music and the strange comfort of knowing they’ll live again, eventually.
A nervous man clutches his paperwork at the gate.
“I’m not on the list,” he mutters.
Kevin glances down. “Oh, right. You opted for the soul-rest loop. We’ll get you in next round. But you can hang backstage for this one. The dog’ll show you.”
Three heads bark in agreement.
Tonight, the Dead sing not of endings, but of what remains: rhythm, joy, and the echoes we leave behind.
Kevin raises his neon cup to the stars.
“To the living. And to what’s next.”
There couldn't be a worse time for burnout. Kevin, the God of Death hadn’t fulfilled his quota, and now this malaise threatened to make him fail. He had to do something.
A gym workout to boost his endorphins? Nope.
Extra-strength vitamin-infused water? Nope.
Sex? Possibly.
But his job didn’t do a lot to boost his popularity among the ladies.
And that was it, Kevin realized. He was tired of being feared. Tired of always being the bad guy. He made a quick assessment in the mirror. Complexion just this side the color of dough, hair too spiky, eyes too fiery.
A little makeup. Some tonsorial changes. Contacts. And he was a new god. Kevin the Good. All he had to do now was cap those sharp canines and find a girl.
Haha! That's a really great character. I particularly loved the part about the 'G' falling off the 'Graveyard' sign... 😎👍
Dude, where's the Pope?
---------------------------
“Keviiiin!” the voice boomed over the party music.
Kevin vaulted over the DJ booth and dove under the table. Knees to chest, face calm, soul screaming.
“Oh hey Kev, where you been, dude?” said Tony, sipping something neon.
“Tony,” Kevin whispered, “keep it down.”
“You hiding from your brother? He’s calling you. Real mad.”
“I know, Tony. That’s why I’m under a table.”
“What’d you do this time? Last time he bent you like a pretzel.”
“Don’t remind me. He bent me so far back, I was smelling my own ass for a month. I still accidentally hold in my farts.” He shuddered.
“Your brother is a master,” Tony laughed.
Kevin opened his mouth to say something, then it hit him. “Dude, where’s the Pope?” He shot upright from under the table.
“The what?”
“The guy in all-white! I left him with you at the door!” Kevin had been assigned to guide the Pope to his brother. A whole afterlife feast had been planned. Trumpets, doves, eternal breadsticks and a literal angelic choir. The works.
“Ohhh, that guy. Chill dude, by the way. I gave him to Penny.”
Kevin’s eyes widened. “Penny? The one who thought Saint Peter was a rock band?”
Tony shrugged. “She said the guy had ‘holy energy.’”
“Great. The Pope’s probably microdosing in the parking lot.” Kevin groaned.
A fog machine hissed. A voice echoed: “Body of Christ, my dudes!”
Kevin turned. The Pope was on the dance floor, shirtless, glow sticks in both hands, riding someone’s shoulders, chanting in Latin. Someone had drawn abs on him with a Sharpie.
Kevin sighed. “I’m so dead.”
This was a fun one! I shared my story here: https://substack.com/@nissaharlowauthor/note/c-113954481
Crossover, huh? Now that's going to get seriously trippy. I will have to meditate on that one. Bear with me...
We can wait. I'm sure all the members of Miguel's cartel enjoy trippy! 😎
Miguel's Cartel -- we need tee-shirts!
T-shirts you say? 🤔
T-shirts, he mused? That would be pretty cool! 😎
Kevin entered the world with a bellow of laughter and a swirl of hilarity. His mother had refused to identify his father, but the midwife was pretty sure that he wasn't mortal - the baby boy's beautiful bronze skin and glowing golden eyes kind of gave his ancestry away, not to mention the explosion of long, wild, black hair already crowning his infantile scalp. She couldn't help chuckling as she handed the continuously giggling bundle of joy to his mother - his enthusiasm for life was infectious!
Kevin's childhood was as happy as his birth. As an infant and toddler, he never cried, and greeted each day with howls of glee. Every second was a celebration, every day a tornado of merriment. He hated getting tucked in at night, it was if he felt that life was a party that should go on and on, and he bopped around until he dropped in exhaustion.
He knew that there was something special about himself. As he grew older, he consulted with the old wizard, who dubbed him "Kev the Mildly Helpful," and sent him out to perform good deeds... but they never really seemed to turn out the way he'd hoped. And the happiness began to leak out of his soul.
So he fumbled along until one moonlit night, he finally found his father. He'd met some undead folks in the cemetery and discovered that they weren't so bad... in fact they were a lot of fun. After he'd raised his mug to toast his new friends, the gentleman zombie in the top hat took him aside.
"Kevin, I have something to tell you. I am not a mere zombie. I am the God of Death. And I am your father. You have passed my test, and I am very proud of you."
It took Kev a second to settle down, but the zombie's ale was excellent so it didn't take him long to adjust to his new reality. "So I'm not Kev the Mildly Helpful?"
The God of Death beamed down proudly at him. "No, son. You are Kev the Future God of Death... that is, if you would like to become apprentice to your old Dad. I'm thinking of retiring someday."
"Oh, awesome, Dad! Party on!" And so Kev began his training for his future profession.
Loving this!
Thank you! Everyone came up with some super cool Kev adventures, but I thought it might be fun to go with an origin story. Plus Kev made such a cute, happy baby! 😉
It was like that scene in the Marx Brothers movie where Groucho was staring at himself in the mirror. Only it wasn’t a mirror.
Kevin the God of Death had become slightly numb to his duties, namely acting as doorman ushering fresh stiffs into the after party. But this threw him for a loop. He was looking at himself.
Kev, the new inductee introduced himself. To himself. “Sick slides.”
“Lookin’ good yourself, I must say. But you can lose the sword here. Zero tolerance policy.”
“But…”
“Didn’t do you much good in the real world now, did it?”
Kev sighed. “Guess not. Never thought I’d be here so soon.”
“What was it that got you? The zombies? I noticed you fraternizing with them yesterday. They can turn on you real fast.”
“Nah. Distemper.”
“Dog bite?”
“Rabid squirrel.”
With that the therapist interrupted Miguel’s reverie. “That’s all the time we have for today I’m afraid. But we are making real progress.”
Miguel yawned
“I’m serious. This Kev/Kevin merger thing seems to mean you have combined your subconscious with the alternate personality you’ve been calling Jon the writer. That’s big.”
Miguel could recognize some cause for optimism, but he had a question. “What about the other 200?”
Oh my gosh, that was a fun twist!
I may have guessed low at 200 on how many people have participated in the prompts!
Wait, we're all just figments of Miguel's imagination? We're.. not really real???
And the penny drops at last... I think I could have a lot more fun as an imaginary person!
😊
I should really count it up haha. My guess Is somewhere north of 140 individual people joining in
It was a special day in the afterlife. .Kevin even thought to comb his wild hair The special guest who was coming was Jimmy Buffet and all his undead Parrotheads. That will be one big party, ,Kevin bought to himself...
I'll get some zombie beer and some ghostie chips and let the party begin.!
Jimmy. and his friends came with their flip-flops on . They had some trouble wearing them since they were another dimension now. Jimmy was his old self,singing songs and cheering everybody up ..
Once again Kevin got to have fun with the undead until they drifted on to the afterlife because they were dead ,you know.
But Kevin was already making plans for the Grateful Dead to arrive at any moment .💀☠️
Thank you , Miguel !
Thank you, dorechi !
Thank you , Izzibella!
Thank you Lia !
Thank you , Stephanie!
Thank you , C. Lee !
He's already got Gerry Garcia... nice one!
Thank you , Scott!