Sheila was stranded in the desert, waiting for a fuel pump to arrive from Barstow. The only air-conditioned place in town was the bar, so she nursed a drink there for several hours. The bartender was in and out, but he told her to be wary of the guy over in the corner. A while later, Sheila heard the chair screech and then slow footsteps cross the hardwood floor. It didn't sound like he was coming toward her and she sighed. Then the opening notes of "Don't Fear The Reaper" by Blue Oyster cult blared out of the crackly jukebox. Sheila grimaced. Her father used to listen to that kind of stuff back in the 80's. sipping her iced tea, the woman felt a sudden chill and turned around. He was pointing straight at her. A tall figure in a long black robe. Sheila shuddered as she focused on the face, or the lack of one, it was..... it was..... Death! "No." she muttered helplessly. "I'm too young. Oh, no. Not now. I can't. I've got a cat at home and .... and.... " His voice was like soft sandpaper. Not loud, but she heard it clearly over the hard-driving music. "Dance." he said. "I'm not going to dance for him", she thought, gulping and dabbing at the bead of sweat on her temple. "Dance?" he repeated, this time in more of a question. He was asking her to dance. Sheila looked around the empty bar. No one else was there to be mistaken. He was still pointing at her. She turned back around, trying to think. Looking at all the bottles, she wondered if she should throw one at him and run, or maybe just chug one. Gulping the rest of her iced tea, she eased off the barstool, smoothed her skirt and faced him calmly. They danced a slow dance to the heavy music and Sheila avoided eye contact (mostly because there were no eyes). She kept trying to stop smiling because it actually wasn't all that bad. Holding the boney hand was a bit unnerving, but she liked tall guys. They danced another and then a third tune and then he bought her a drink. A real drink. When the guy from the garage came in and told her the car was done, Sheila realized how much time had passed and how much they had talked. She said she had to go and he asked where she was headed. She told him L.A. and he said he could use a lift. "Where are you going?" The young woman asked. "Death Valley." Sheila snorted and slapped her hand to her mouth, but laughed aloud and backed out the door. He tipped his cowled head in confusion and shook it, more than a little disppointed. Moments later, a car horn honked with impatience, outside. When he went to the door and looked out, a yellow convertible sat there, with Sheila waving to him to get in. *** Sometimes words are needed to go with the image and sometimes lots of words. These stories pop into my head as I work and then the image starts to change to fit the story Jukebox from 3DCafe, mats- Tony Lynch floor and Animax walls. Scythe made in Carrara