Tuesdays with Story

Fifth Tuesday stories
January 29, 2013

Writing challenge: You, or a character of your creation, believe the world is going to end on a set date. You or your character get ready for it . . . then it doesn’t happen. What do you or your character do now? . . . Maximum length, our ever-popular 250 words.

The tomb
Michelle Nightoak, first-and-third

The warmth of my fingers unconsciously stroking the rosary beads releases the fragrance of myrrh. Its scent drifting toward my nostrils gently rouses me. Soft white linen envelopes me, and my eyelids flutter slightly against the whisper-light fabric. It slides with a caress over my smooth skin, skin carefully anointed with rose oil specially ordered from a garden near Gethsemane. The preparations have taken months – artisans of wood, of prayer, of cloth and oil and gauze. The intricate carvings are so achingly beautiful that fingers of light dance across them even in shade.
I drift somewhere between the world of spirit and that of the flesh.
My heart, still bathed in ice from the sedative, sings the purity of my intentions. Above me incense and prayers are spiraling to heaven as I await the final trumpet announcing eternal life. My coffin is already nestled in the sweet arms of the earth, and the carefully calculated dosage of the medication lifts and releases me to pure joy. It will be only moments now until I am with my Lord.
The moments turn to minutes; my faith takes a tentative step towards doubt; my soul begins to sob and then to scream.
I lie in a tomb of my own making. My Savior has turned his eyes from me.

Old Abraham again
Alicia Connolly-Lohr, first-and-third

His color drained as he looked out on a gray Washington.
Sporadic fires flickered. A burnt smell rained over everything.
There the White House reposed, a smashed heap.
Lincoln brooded as he strolled its perimeter. He glanced back at the Secret Service men with him. “They brought me back to see the likes of this?”
“Yessir, Mr. President,” one said, his voice choked.
“I feel like a poor little prairie dog after a forest fire, sticking my head out.” He met the saddened eyes of the others. “I think I’d like to go back into my ground hole, now.”
One responded with a weak chuckle.
Lincoln walked on.
Some blanketed, ragged people ambled by. They cried out to him.
He touched their hands. “Do your best. Find others,” he said. “Help them.”
They went on.
Lincoln touched the arm of the Secret Service man closest to him. “Any reports from the states?”
“Precious little, sir – some radio intercepts from the West, the South – and Wisconsin.”
Lincoln stopped, overcome. “It’s a sign.”
“Sir?”
“Wisconsin. It’s a continuation of Illinois where I started. Chased Indians there in ’32. Spoke there in ’59.” A wistful look took residence on his face. “It’s a sign. For certain. I’m to lead again. Why the heavens would want this dead, broken-down matchstick of a man, I don’t know.”
He breathed in.
His chest puffed.
He squared his shoulders.
“For rekindling,” one of his men said.
“I s’pose so. You know, women really have no complaint at all.” A little smile creased Lincoln’s face. “The way I see it, it’s a president’s work that’s never done.”

Beyond Armageddon
Millie Mader, first-and-third

I cower. The Doomsday clock has stayed locked on 11:54 for fifty years. If it moves tonight, New Year’s Eve, 2049, it won’t push us into 2050. We’ll be hurled into an apocalyptic Armageddon. I believe the prophets this time. When a young man, I remember the Mayan prophecy, which amounted only to the end of their calendar for that time.
For sixty plus years, the world has been discussing climate change, fracking, ethanol, wind turbines. Back and forth the politicians, oil companies, coal miners and environmentalists have rocked. No cooperation. Fueled by greed, Media mentioned only what they wanted us to hear. Way back in the nineties, tourists saw the Alaskan glaciers “calving”. It was put on the back burner. So were the increasing droughts, the tornadoes and the floods, getting more devastating and widespread every year. These were fodder for the media, but short lived. Wars raged worldwide, with no end or solution in sight. Whole races were being eradicated.
Last spring, a massive flood wiped out an entire town in Ontario. It was major news for a week. Then an unprecedented blizzard buried most of the far South East. Meanwhile, a budget battle raged on, as it had for nearly a half-century. Politicians remained mired in pork barrel projects. The populace had no aid money in their battle to survive the devastation that was rapidly covering our land.
In what had been called a recovery back in 2013, homes and businesses crowded the rural landscape. Farms and ranches had been sold to greedy developers – many of them foreigners – with no thought to water. Aquifers and wells ran dry. People and the few remaining cattle had little to eat or drink.
Meanwhile, the flooding from the glaciers rushed south, covering the Midwest and North Texas. Ageing dams were rent asunder. Drownings were common.
I had no family left, and I headed South – way down to the land of the Mayans. Did I think the end of the world was approaching? No, it was already here.
The New Jerusalem or “Beam me up, Scotty”
Brandy Larson, second-and-fourth

The predicted end of the world didn’t worry me too much. I was expecting one of two scenarios: either The New Jerusalem right here on good old Terra Firma – Revelations 21: “At the end of the world, the earth together with the celestial bodies will be gloriously transformed into a part of the dwelling place of the blessed.” – or an instantaneous “Beam me up, Scotty” to a heavenly realm. Either way you might look like your high school graduation picture. I could handle that.
For the tired old world, how wonderful to transcend war, hunger, sickness and *old age*.
There are a lot of things I’d miss in my humble world, I thought. But maybe the Biblical end of the world as we know it would mean transformation of our immediate surroundings into a place where perfect people inhabited uncluttered spaces that never had to be dusted. I hate vacuuming.
I remembered what Geshe Sopa told my Buddhism class about the seven levels of Deva Heaven. When you die, your soul is struck like a bell, he said, and the tone produced determines your goodness level, as the soul registers all Earthly deeds. Kind of like St. Peter at the Pearly Gates. Then you are beamed up to the appropriate Deva Realm where you work. Yes, he said there is work in heaven. If your tone is of a low vibration, you go to the Hungry Ghost realm, kind of like Purgatory, where there is probably even more work to do and maybe takes longer. Don’t ask about the Hell Realm.
After working out your Karma, you will eventually be reincarnated into another human body where you will be motivated through suffering to figure things out – enlightenment – or rinse and repeat.
If you were really bad, you might come back as an animal. Being a cat would be okay, but a warthog?
Without Gaya, where would you end up? Revelations does mention celestial bodies, so The New Jerusalem might still be a possibility, even if it was the end of the world.
I didn’t make any preparations for the end of the world as we know it, tho there are a few things I kind of wanted to hang onto. Alas, as everyone knows, you can’t take it with you.

Winter waits
by Brandy Larson

Deer tongue lettuce leaves
rise after December frost
again licking the sky

Hazy low hanging sun
peeking from the northern skies
warms cold winter eyes

Morning fog beading
black wool jacket collecting clouds
warm December’s breath

April in December
bare skin drinks the sun’s last kiss
sweet surrender – this

Silver ferns of ice
tick tack a frozen snail track
across frosted windows

Journal entry of a survivor
Katelin Cummins, second-and-fourth

December 22, 2012
I awoke to rays of sunlight cast on the rock walls around me. Morning!
It was a frantic and rough crawl to get out of the little cave. The sun shown down from a blue sky and made the frost on the rocks shimmer. Countryside spread out in every direction, still and silent. A cold breeze blew and caused me to pull my coat closer. I was alone on the mountain top.
I must have slept through the apocalypse. The aliens must have come and taken everyone else away. They didn’t find me in my hole. I kicked a loose rock and watched it roll away. Damn. Why couldn’t I stay awake?
Still, the magnetic force field around the mountain seems to have protected me from danger. That’s funny, there’s no evidence of disaster anywhere. The apocalypse should have destroyed everything except for this mountain. Even the village looks just like it did yesterday, before the calamity I slept through. All the buildings are intact. People are moving about down there, beginning their day.
Aliens. They are aliens in disguise! They re-terraformed and repaired everything faster than I imagined! And what an excellent job!
They must be very good aliens to rebuild Earth like this so fast. And they are in charge now, so this new world will be a better place. I will go down to meet them, and start my wondrous new life.

It’s a new day
Terry Hoffman, second-and-fourth

Good morning, Sunshine. So much for staying awake to welcome the end of the world. By the look of you, I can see you did engage in all the hedonistic debauchery on your list. You can put your clothes on now.
On this fine new day, let’s take a look at your end of the world check list:
– Blow all your cash on fast cars and trips.
Guess we can check that one off.
– Eat all the steaks, bread and sweets you want.
By the amount of vomit you’re laying in, I can see that you took care of that one. Stomach hurts, huh?
– Drink only the finest scotch.
Bloodshot eyes, gnawing headache, shaky hands. Check.
– Pick up women and have your way with them.
Humph. Check.
– Tell you boss to…whoa.
Yep. After a couple scotches, you told him just that.
– You went to confession to ask for forgiveness.
Covering all your bases, I see.
Well, friend, it’s a new day. Surprise! You have no job or money. Your Corvette is still in the ravine where you rolled it. It’s totaled, by the way. Also, your wife took the kids and left you. And, there are four enraged women headed this way with the police.
Ah, foolish little person. I told you only I know when the end day will come. You should have believed me.
By the way, I do forgive you, but you still have to face the consequences.

The world’s ending, save the cheese
Rebecca Rettenmund, first-and-third, second-and-fourth

Near the end of the work day, I was sweeping The Cheese Shop. Just as my broom neared an outlet, some drunk came in. He loaded up his arms with cheese and tried to run off.
I smacked him with my broom.
He dropped the cheese. “Tomorrow is the end of the world!”
I called my boss. She didn’t answer. I left a message about the guy who tried to loot the store and gave a physical description of him.
Checked the radio. It was dead.
Panic. What if it really WAS the end of the world tomorrow? I called Isaiah. He didn’t answer either. Maybe NO ONE could answer their phone! I should go find him, but I couldn’t leave the shop unattended. This SUCKS! I don’t wanna die tomorrow! I’m never going to see my mom or dad again. I’ll never finish my book. What a shame. All this cheese is going to go to waste. Maybe I should just take all the ten-year-old cheddar and leave now.
Just then Isaiah walked in through the door. He was there to pick me up. I worried at him: “I think it’s the end of the world tomorrow. No one has bought anything in the past two hours.”
Isaiah pointed to my neon sign. “Maybe that’s because you left your open sign off.”
“No! It’s really ending. Look! The radio is dead.” I turned the switch on. Nothing.
Isaiah noticed the plug was out.
My cheeks flushed. “Oh. I must’ve knocked it out while I was sweeping.”

End of the world
Lisa McDougal, first-and-third

Am I a fool? Why has God forsaken me? I have prayed. I have fasted, yet the bastard has forsaken me. The calendar does not lie. Today is December 21, 2012.
God! You fucking bastard! You lying fable! You holy son-of-bit-
“STOP!” A voice said from beyond. “Now that will do. I will hear no more of this swearing in my name.”
God? Is that you?
“Well, it sure as hell ain’t Moses. Now, what is this hell you’re raising in my name?”
Do you not know what day it is, Lord?
“Of course, I know what today it is. Hell, I invented the damn calendar. It’s July 28, 2013.”
My Lord, I am sorry, but that is not correct. It is the 21st of December, 2012. The day the Mayans predicted the end of Earth.
“Oh, my God, not this again – you have it all wrong. You count your days according to Caesar’s calendar. The Mayans predicted the end of the world based off my calendar, which didn’t include the leap year. Caesar, that gigolo, apparently thought the way I designed the world to spin wasn’t right, so he made up his own calendar, which you all decided was far more superior to mine.”
Oh…So why didn’t you end the world seven months ago?
“Are you serious? Have you seen the news? You guys are doing fine without my help. So when December 21st rolled around, I looked at the world and said why bother, and went on vacation.”

House Brew
Amber Boudreau, first-and-third

Bobby woke up, head splitting, rolled over and vomited. He lay in his own mess, but no more than a minute. Finally, he lifted his head and opened his eyes.
Thank God, it was dark.
This was it. The world had ended. Except, shouldn’t he be feeling no pain? He sure hadn’t been feeling anything but numb last night after partaking in a smorgasbord of offerings: a little smoke, a little pill, a little powder for his nose. And the house brew.
His friends – well, he called them friends – were people who liked the look of him, and he was the kind of boy who liked to have his looks appreciated. His ‘friends’ knew how to throw an out-of-this-world, into-the-next party. But shouldn’t they have all thrust off their mortal coils by now? That was what the preacher man kept talking about until someone pushed a drink into his hand and led him out on the dance floor between two girls.
What the heck had woken him up anyway?
A red glow caught his eye. He pushed himself up with muscles not entirely for show and staggered closer to the box, careful to step over other prone figures.
Red numbers.
Counting down.
They weren’t kidding about it being an end of the world party.
Minutes left.
He scrambled to the door, not being quiet, and fumbled with locks before yanking the door open. Light spilled across bodies. Nobody stirred. Nobody breathed.
He turned and rushed at his tomorrows.

Pocalypse Busters
Clayton Gill, first-and-third

“Drill, please,” Miker said, “and the half-inch masonry bit.”
Geo handed the heavy tool to his partner who crouched above the hole he had cut in the Elwood family’s living room floor. The ragged hole exposed the reinforced concrete roof of the prepper’s bunker.
Miker adjusted his ear plugs and safety goggles and got to work on the bore hole.
Above the screech of the drill, Geo shouted, “How long’s he been down there?”
Collie Elwood, the prepper’s preteen daughter, covered her ears and shouted back. “Since midnight December Twenty-One.”
“Whew, more than a month.”
“He thinks aliens brainwashed Mom and me to stay behind.”
“Glad we’re here. But, hey, who else ya gonna call?”
Mrs. Elwood looked in from kitchen. After signing the release forms, she had made hot chocolate for everyone. She lifted her mug in a toast to the young entrepreneurs, the Pocalypse Busters.
Miker switched off the drill. “Once we punch through, we’ll pipe in a binaural brainwave entrainment broadcast, which should help us persuade Mr. Elwood to unlock the door and come out.”
“However,” Geo said, “if he’s suffering an especially extreme case of severe apocalyptic disorder, our patent-pending technology may not be completely effective.”
Collie gave him a long look. “What then?”
Miker wiped concrete dust from his goggles. “That’s why we asked about all those things a half-inch or less in diameter that really freak your dad out.”
She laughed. “Right. Spiders, cockroaches, and centipedes.”
“And frozen peas.” Mrs. Elwood said. “And carrots.”

Strip scrabble
Judith McNeil, first-and-third

Wendy was the one in our seniors Scrabble group who always came up with the outlandish ideas.
Everybody knows what Strip Poker is. Well, Wendy thought that we should do a scrabble version of that, as a fundraiser for our tournament prize. We vehemently vetoed that suggestion, we, being very active in our church.
In late October, 2012, we became overwhelmed with the “end of the world” craze. Wendy felt that we could do a modified strip scrabble game, wearing 19th century underwear, as a joke. The game would be played on December 20th right before the seniors lunch.
Gerri came out of her usual shell to volunteer to rent the costumes.
Marie didn’t want to pay to rent costumes and volunteered outfits from her family trunk of antique clothes. I didn’t want to be the wet noodle, so I agreed. We were scared and excited at the thought of celebrity-hood at the senior center, one last fling before the possible end of the world.
Wendy smiled. “We might even get some of those old-goat men excited.”
Marie smirked. “They’re more interested in studying the insides of their eyelids.”
I said, “You never know.”
We became celebrities at the senior center thanks to the mice and moths having infiltrated Marie’s attic. As we disrobed, the fabric disintegrated. The men opened their eyes and gasped, but not as loudly as we did. More modest pics made the newsletter. Since the world did not end, we were banned from our church.
It was fun.

The a.m. that shouldn’t be
Jerry Peterson, first-and-third

Pappy Brown woke to the roaring of a lawnmower. With a massive effort, he pushed himself up on his elbows, grimacing from pains in strange places. And his tongue, it felt like an old gym sock.
He collapsed back on the bed and dragged the sheet over his face, wishing himself dead.
Caroline Brown, in a chair at the side, lifted the sheet back. “Morning, Grandpops.”
“Gawd, when’s Joey gonna get a muffler on that hellish lawnmower?”
“Maybe tomorrow. You party hearty at the end of the world party last night, Grandpops?” Caroline winked at her grandfather.
“You gonna give me a hard time because I was a believer?”
“I wouldn’t think of it. What are you going to do now?”
“Get some breakfast. Later see if maybe I can buy my business back.”
“Grandpops, I’ll make you breakfast.”
“Thanks, sweets.”
“How about a runny egg and some greasy bacon?”
Pappy clamped a hand over his mouth. He threw back the sheet and bolted for the bathroom. A toilet seat banged against the water closet, followed by the sounds of a man suffering the dry heaves.
Caroline smiled. She spied her grandfather’s trousers and shirt in a heap on the floor and carried them to the bathroom. She pitched them in. “Get dressed after you get cleaned up.”
“Uhhh–”
Witch Hazel came whining up the stairs. Caroline opened the bathroom door and shoved the dog in as well. “Company.”
“Eeesh, I sure did it this time, to be visited by the hair of the dog. Oh Jesus, Witchy, you’re sitting on my shirt. Go bother someone else. Caroline! She won’t leave!”
“Sorry, I’ve gone to the kitchen.”