The church bell chimed, a signal of hope.
In the streets, the dead tore apart the living. Ancestor feasted upon descendant.
As the innocent ran towards the high church tower, the sky became red. Buildings burned; mothers cried.
As folks poured in, the priest’s black eyes showed the true cause.
James P. Spitznogle is an aspiring writer from the apocalyptic hills of West Virginia.
As the present world came to an end, things did fall apart.
Masses of now-believers were loosed on the streets. Some wept, some prayed, some turned to the Beast… and some held up signs to the heavens pleading, “Take me!”
God yawned, and chose the ones with the biggest signs.
Alison is not as much of a cynic as this story would insinuate, but rather was influenced by a vivid dream, and the famous Yeats poem “The Second Coming.” She is currently busy working on her sign.
“How will the end begin?” my daughter asked me one night. “And I don’t want you make any jokes about the letters ‘T’ and ‘H’ or tell me I’ll find out when I’m older or change the subject!”
Just then, a billion trumpets sounded.
“Whoa,” she said. “Never mind, daddy.”
This story is based on a title suggested by @stealingzen.