It’s time for more End of the World entries, sports fans! I like that it worked out to post these two together, because they share a couple common notes and are both great reads.
Swirl, sniff, and savor, folks.
Jake snapped out of a doze as Pastor Charles Voorhees slammed the Bible onto the pulpit. “God will NOT be mocked!” he raged, spraying vengeance into the first two rows.
Shit, Jake thought, why the hell are you yelling at us? I could be at Into the Blue 2, watching Jessica Alba in a bikini two sizes too small. Last day it’s playing but I’m here, so how about cutting me a little fucking slack, okay?
Voorhees stalked across the stage, head swinging left and right, daring anyone to contradict him. He paused. His features softened. Now he was kindly Grandpa Chuck. “It could be today, my brothers. Our Lord could split the eastern sky this moment. We know neither the day nor the hour. When that trumpet sounds, when the dead in Christ shall rise, when the end of this God-forsaken world comes…where will you be? Where do you WANT to be?” He removed a sodden handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed his brow, patted his lips. “I’ll tell you, my friends. I want to be right here. Amongst the redeemed of the Lord…”
Jake had to piss. Ignoring his father’s frown, he slid from the row. Behind him Chuck Voorhees picked up steam.
The foyer was less claustrophobic. He passed the ladies’ room as old Sister Lawrence exited, a two-foot-long streamer of toilet paper stuck to her shoe. Beyond her, as the door was swinging shut, Jake saw Missy Davies standing in front of the mirror adjusting her bra strap.
Fuck this. Chucky Cheese in there says the end of the world could be today. You know where I wanna spend it, Chuckles? Seeing if Jessica Alba will pop a nipple, that’s where.
Twenty minutes later, he and his buddy Randall had their tickets for the latest Pixar offering. Loaded with popcorn they walked down the hall, past the theater indicated on their stubs and into the next, two minutes before Jessica Alba slid out of the water, dripping liquid and high-beaming like there was no tomorrow. And so it went, with more T & A per second than any boy could want.
A dull thudding came through the walls.
Jessica entered the yacht’s small shower. “Holy shit, Randall, she’s gonna get naked in this one.”
Thud. Louder, followed by ripping sounds, distant screams.
“What the fuck?” Randall said.
Jake shushed him. “It’s the movie next door. Chill.”
“Dude, that’s the Pixar flick—there ain’t no explosions…shit, I hear screaming.”
The crowd had taken notice, some heading uneasily toward the exit.
Jessica turned toward the shower head, facing the camera, still in her bikini. She reached behind her for the ties, the movement causing her back to arch and her breasts to strain against the fabric.
Randall stood, his voice the flat. “We gotta get outta here.”
In the back of Jake’s mind: “We know neither the day nor the hour…when the end of this God-forsaken world comes…Where do you WANT to be?”
Jessica slipped the knot…and Jake smiled.
Word Count: 498
Unemployed and homely in appearance, Larry is a man who’s tired of life. From the moment he was born, Fate decided that Larry would be one of the unfortunate ones to receive Fate’s twisted sense of humor.
It’s a normal Wednesday morning. Larry wakes to the sound of his landlord pounding his fist on Larry’s door. Larry opens his eyes and decides he would commit suicide. Today. Maybe right after lunch.
The sun traverses the sky. Larry starts his preparations. He sits on the couch with pen and paper in hand. The TV in front of him drones on about scattered earthquakes all over the world. Larry pays it no mind.
Poison? Too painful.
Slitting of the wrist? Too messy.
Gunshot to the head? Gun’s too expensive.
Larry can see it in his head. His landlord enters his apartment. He sees Larry’s body swinging like a morbid pendulum with tongue sticking out. Larry smiles as he imagines his landlord’s face turning a sickly green.
Larry encircles the word: Hanging.
Larry ties one end of the rope around the ceiling fan. He pulls out his iPhone and checks the tutorial in YouTube on how to make a noose.
He studies the video and memorizes every loop. Ten minutes pass by and Larry has a perfectly tied noose in his hand. He wears it like a necklace and tightens it.
He starts to have second thoughts on whether or not suicide’s the best thing, then his landlord returns at his door. Yep, suicide it is.
Larry’s breathing becomes heavy. “Next would be to jump.”
Larry closes his eyes and steps off the chair—kicking it down along the way. He feels the rope bite into his skin. Larry claws at his neck.
He opens his mouth to say “painful, hanging’s too painful. To hell with being dramatic,” but the words that he manages to utter are: “Ack. Ack.”
He tries to pull himself up but lacks the necessary arm strength to do so. Larry feels himself slipping away. It’s the end of the world for Larry…
…then his apartment starts to violently shake. Larry hears wood straining and breaking. Larry falls down to the floor. Coughing, he removes the noose from his neck and looks up. He sees a huge hole in his ceiling—the part where the ceiling fan is attached. The fan lies beside Larry.
He remains on the floor as everything starts to settle down. He looks at the noose in his hands, then at himself, unharmed save for a few rope burns.
“A sign,” he says in between sobs. “It’s a sign.” Larry starts to laugh.
The TV set lies on the floor, on its side. The grim face of a news reporter is on display.
“…all around the world huge fissures are suddenly appearing. Experts say the tectonic plates are dramatically shifting…”
Larry doesn’t hear a word. He stands up. He’s decided to live life to the fullest. Starting tomorrow. Maybe after lunch.
This is Emmie again. Wowzers! Make sure you stop by the comments to congratulate today’s writers on their awesome entries.
Haven’t heard the sitch yet? Click the image above for more information. Contest runs through midnight EDT on 30 July — you still have plenty of time to join in on the apocalyptic fun!
Note to entrants: Please ensure you are including your NAME, your TWITTER HANDLE/EMAIL, and the WORD COUNT. If these three things are not present when I go to judge the entries, your story will be disqualified.
Which would be, like, the end of the world. Follow the directions. Avert the apocalypse.
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