Monologue At Armageddon

A fiery short story.

Fireballs filled the sky. All I could do was watch. I stood on the edge of the pier, waiting for my cue to escape the blaze that raged above me. Shooting starts never looked so daunting. As a child, I remember standing with my fingers crossed squinting my eyes trying to see a blazing planet land in my front yard.

If I could speak to that child now, I would say “stop manifesting death you idiot” — look what I did. Screams bounced off the buildings around me like a ping-pong ball. To the left, to the right, the player blocks, and bam it is a home run.

Oh, wait, wrong sport. Sports were never my best subject, but maybe some cardio could have saved me. No, nothing can save us now. Sitting with my legs dangling off the end of the pier, too casual for the commotion that surrounded me. Little kids bellowed, searching for their parents lost in the crowd. I just watched it.

What’s the point in intervening when it’s the end of the world? Some humans safely tucked away under the wooden pillars behind me, big men trampling little old ladies, and the occasional suicide in the panic. I can’t stop it.

The water — is the only place that won’t burn. I assume, in my little knowledge of physics, that I will need to be submerged for a long period. Otherwise, I could scotch my beautiful noggin. My beautiful alive noggin.

Purplish hues behind the clouds. What a strange color for such a horrible scene. It contrasted nicely with the blood and scent of burning flesh from the little pellets that fell off the asteroid and smashed the people. I wish one hit me. It would leave a cool scar if I lived. It wouldn’t matter if I died. I mean, the infection could kill me and it would be a long-suffering. Oozing puss for the day because the wound was wet. The streaks of red tunneled into my heart until it stopped.

The writhing pain before the last beat, the yelling and tears — okay, I am glad not to burn.

I don’t know if drowning is much better. They say that it is a peaceful death once you give in. Virginia Woolf gave in, rocks in her pocket in the swallow river, weighed down by the stone and by determination. I bet it burns to inhale water. In the bathtub, I hated it getting up my nose. Tickling the little hairs in my nostril until I spewed it out, followed by goopy goodness.

No, I don’t think I would very much like to drown. I don’t have the Moxy to pull that off. I can hold my breath, I’ve practiced. My best time was 3 minutes, so I hope the flames stop in at least 2 minutes and 45 seconds. Otherwise, I am screwed.

The air raid horn went off a little too late. The hounding of the painful echo was breaking my concentration. I had to live. I have no choice. The world is ending — great! I want to be the Mad Max, the Negan, the Will Smith. I am a survivor.

Well, there it is. The ash is thicker, the flames hotter, and every breath I take is labored. Under I go to a world beyond this horror.

Wish me luck.