Young Writers Society

Dima. That's a good name. Kate took a long breath, taking her in. Flowy dress. A child really but with a voice far more mature than it probably should be. The images from earlier came to mind. You look a little younger than I expected.

Looks mean very little where I'm from. Dima hummed. I'm not as old as you, of course. But you're older than all. I can feel it. But I haven't been a child for a long time.

Kate hummed. That I can see. There was a little pause before Kate spoke up again. Forgive me for presuming but it seems almost like you never really got to be a child.

Dima laughed softly. I got a good seven years. I was one of the lucky ones, really.

There was something that seemed to resemble a small sigh. I suppose its a little better than nothing.

Dima nodded. I don't think about that time, though. It was so long ago. It's better to focus on the now, like what I can do to help you.

That would make you stronger than I ever was. Kate let out another sigh. Very well. Why don't you look a little to the left. That's what this little box was meant to hold.

Dima looked to the left, following Kate's gaze.

An army swam into view. Comprised of a vast assortment of beings of all shapes and sizes. They didn't look to be alive, not judging from the skeletal frames that marched with the stupor of the dead.

They were charging a fiery tornado that seemed to be holding them at bay.

Say hello to my little brother Jason. More commonly known as Death.

Dima hummed. He's pretty different from my death. She always seems on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

Kate chuckled. Oh darling. Death is always on the edge of a nervous breakdown. He's just good at hiding it.