“Come with us,” they said. Eventually, he went with them.
The world’s media had long been alight. It’s not every day undecipherable symbols appear on the Moon.
His crime? Fishing on the river while everyone was panicking.
That, and being the only being on Earth able to read the symbols.
Standing on the footpath the cyclist had just been removed from, small pools of blood seeping brown into the asphalt, he noticed tiny red specks on his suede shoes. He heard another onlooker say something like, “Holy, this is horrific.”
He nodded his agreement; he’d bought the shoes in Florence.
The preacher’s wife saw them selling the deep fried butter balls dusted with icing sugar at the Texas State Fair. She ate three in a row. She ordered a Diet Coke to wash them down as penitence.
Oddly, she felt worse about these sins than the affair with the Deacon.
“A UFO!” screeched Becky Turner. “Outside the chem lab!”
We peered through the dusty glass. The silver dish took up the entire quadrangle, having landed on the basketball team judging from the lanky legs protruding crookedly.
Acne McGee grimaced. “I had money on those guys winning the trophy this year.”
B Lee Draper is a teacher and aspiring author. She dreams of one day owning a chocolate-coated vineyard.
Mere minutes til the results are announced. Win or lose, succeed or fail… Which will it be?
She perches on the corner of her bed, clutching her phone. It rings.
“Well?” she breathes.
“Hi, honey. It’s Mom.”
She hangs up in disgust. This is too important.
The phone rings again.
This story was based on the TypeTrigger prompt “minutes til.”