Gleanings (Arc of a Scythe)

by Neal Shusterman

Slicing through the air with effortless aplomb, the moment you take your first swing, you wield your axe like you are a master in the art of gleaning. Those before you are in awe. They cannot imagine what your next move will be. You carry yourself as balanced and poised as a performer dancing brutally among them; the searing star of stars, your robe cascading to the earth in showers of gold. But that is not the truth.

We are Scythes. And the weapons We wield are not by any means our friends. The devastating force of bullet, blade, and bludgeon tears us apart each day, every day, piece by piece, and leaves us with wounds that will never heal. This is what ties us to the masses, yet restrains us from being one with them. And with each new gleaning, We bleed and break anew, yet our resolve never changes. For We are scythes. Nothing will ever change that fact. And when it is your time to bleed, you will know, and you will learn.

“The Windbags of Washington continue to stir an increasingly rancid pot,”

“The future is unfettered. Long live us all!”

This occurrence fell in mid-autumn; the time of year when trees go deadish for the winter with spectacular displays of bronzing foliage. A time when the sun seems to tire of being so long in the sky. A time when spiders grow their largest before filling their egg sacks and withering away.

Kila gave her a wink. “Depends on who you ask.” So now she was officially a Hellion. Truth be told, Kila was proud. She’d been angling for the distinction for months. There were four levels of unsavory status. Common Unsavory was just the baseline. Then came Hellion, then Pandæmon, and finally Apocalyte. Kila was still far from that, but it was certainly something to aim for. “What could have possibly possessed you to release a bag of untagged black mambas in the Department of Unsavory Affairs?” Agent Gooley asked. Kila remained nonchalant. “I had number eighty-six, and they were only on number twelve. I figured the snakes would help motivate the agents to work a little faster.” “Six people were rendered deadish, and we’re still finding snakes in the vents.” “Only six?” said Kila. “Damn. I bet a friend it would be eight.”

Xenocrates dismissed that with a wave. “Never apologize for ambition. There’s no shame in wanting to rise above.”

“She means art expresses things that language can’t.”

Do not be afraid of death, Morty once read, for is it not simply the same void from whence we first emerged?

Loneliness is a relative term. Is a dandelion seed lonely when its pod opens and the wind lifts it into the air? Once it lands and takes root, yes, it is solitary, but is it lonely? Of course not! It is content to know it was one of many.

“But some of the scythes here are assholes.”

“Do not forget,” he said, “I am a courier of death. My displeasure could end very badly for you.”

“Stop! Thy performance was the rankest compound of villainous smell that ever offended nostril.”