I was well-published writer of what were and have been called ‘great works’ – no, I will not tell you my ‘original’ name; my descendants are still getting wonderful royalties and I refuse to compromise that – and then I died. Personally, I thought I’d just drifted off to sleep.
Imagine, if you will, my great surprise when I awoke not in my bed, but in a rather unpleasant setting that consisted of a hard surface underneath my now-naked body in a dimly-lighted chamber that…to be horribly honest…didn’t smell well. Casting my eyes about me, I saw other people – if one could call those who appeared to have passed beyond the mortal coil ‘people’.
This was somewhat disconcerting and completely unexpected. Later, I was called a ‘martyr to experimental scientific method’. Upon reflection, I suppose I should have never stuffed that chicken with snow.
Of course, more will follow. This is the beginning of 385 years.
As I noted earlier, I thought I had merely fallen to sleep. I was horribly tired, you know, having caught a cold on the way to my estate and then rather foolishly deciding that I had to experiment with a chicken. As a side note, I did not see myself rising above my body as others have recounted when discussing their near-death experiences. I was awake then asleep then dead then awake again. On a slab. Naked. In the basement of what I assumed was a mortuary. I was awake and naked, but I was not cold, even though winter still held her frigid sway on the world.