Moot Paragraphs

Here are three paragraphs of a story inspired by the word "moot," as requested by Fuse#8:

A lot of people in my family like to start arguments. They thrive on the sport. One of my brothers, Moros, told me, “If I don’t have at least one confrontation a day, I don’t feel like a real demi-god.” It makes a certain amount of sense. When you consider that my brother was the personification of impending doom and destruction (not to mention the fourth of six children), sometimes the persistence of conflict is all you have to keep yourself from appearing to be just one of the crowd.

I’ve always been more of an argument-ender. Technically, it’s not part of my job description, but I doubt Hades would have hired me for post of Underworld Ferryman had I not displayed a certain sense of thrift and expediency. Two things are inevitable: death and taxes. To enter the Underworld properly (i.e. by ferryboat), you need an obolus coin. The third most common question I get (after “How can I possibly be dead?” and “Aren’t you supposed to be a guy?”) is “How was I supposed to know about the obolus?”

I don’t make the rules. I just take the money and cross the river. This is a non-negotiable statute. Once you get to the other side of the river, though, there is room for debate. Contrary to what you may have heard, you do actually get a say as to where you live after you die. We have a forum called the Afterlife-Moot. People gather there to discuss local issues, discuss the meaning of death and trade house-mates.

I'm done for now. This is probably why I am not a novelist. My brain trickles away after three paragraphs. Then again, it could be the effects of the heat.


Earlier adventures of Karen the Ferryman: King/Coin/Ferryman/Dog