By R.Y. Brockway
A shadow emerged, a dark spot in the vast, featureless, white terrain. It descended, circling above Lazarus’s head, and he could just make out the forms of outstretched arms, long fingers splayed wide-open. Around and around it spiraled, growing closer with each pass before ascending once again on some unperceivable updraft. Oh sweet Death, thought Lazarus, finally you have come to embrace me.
A cold, wet splash hit Lazarus’s in the face. Lazarus jerked upright, gasping for breath. He clutched his head as it spun between his hands and tried to control his breathing. The vulture — not Death — took one last look at its would-be meal and flew away, disappearing over the horizon.