Part time cynic. Full time creative writer - that most likely means I'm poor.
So, you died. You had taken a few more steps across the moss-infested slimy planks. They were roughly entwined, and heaved under even the subtlest weights, crackling with bursting air pockets.
That shimmering slice of glass, precision cut to the micrometer, undefinable ridges and curls inserted onto it's gleaming structure, across which not one speck of blinding sunlight could reflect.
An old door, garnished with a rickety bell pull and ornate bronze knocker. Atop the door, stood in majesty a notice, "please take any mail round to the back door" were it's unmistakable, rounded...
Razor-sharp pain flourished through his chest, as if a silver bullet had speared into his lung. His knees glimmered with the final few hopes of remaining upright. "it can't end yet".