Apocalypse by Mario Ogu

This isn’t how I expected the world to end.

Outside there are birds, there’s a sun, there are people, but the world is ending.

I expected there to be an apocalypse. I expected the birds to die, the sun to eclipse and the people to scream.

 I expected to be running, foot after foot, on ground that was slowly giving way from under me.

I expected the sky to turn black with menace, the clouds to grow morbid grimaces looking down on our poor, deluded souls.

Deluded because we believed that things would always be like this.

Deluded because we didn’t realize all beginnings have an ending.

I expected hell to rise or Buddha to come gliding down, majestic grace too godly, too pure for our eyes that soon would no longer be ours.

 I expected fire to come down with a vengeance.

  Striking everyone, lighting everything, Hell everywhere! No more lush greens or urban grays. No more nature delights and man-made pollution. No! Everything would begin anew, the fire serving to purify us,

 To relieve us from all the fuck ups we have made and would have made without it.

I expected all of that, but none of them happened.

 It’s funny how our nightmares lie to us, leading us astray. Making us believe that the greatest fear we should have is some divine intervention. Some reckoning. Some punishment for our pleasures and avarice. But that’s not what’ll destroy us.

No, the world ended when she came to me, beautiful green eyes lit with remorse, telling me that it was over. Telling me that she couldn’t do it anymore, that we couldn’t be together. THAT’S how it happened. That’s how the sky lost its hue and the clouds became sinister

That’s how MY world ended.

Princess Betty by Jade Vickery

            For weeks I dreaded the sight of her. Throughout my training as a bakery clerk, my learning was constantly being interrupted by phrases like “No, it’s like this, don’t do it like that, or you should be taught properly.” It didn’t matter that I was new; if I was doing something wrong I was going to be corrected. It seemed like every day she was coming up to me, accusing me of something: working in her space, walking in front of her, or taking cake orders the wrong way. To her, it would’ve been perfectly fine if World War 3 broke out, but if the wrong Dora the Explorer image was put on a cake all hell would break loose.

            And if Betty was mad you’d know. Betty was a professional. She had mastered the art of anger charades. She scoffed and snorted. She threw her hands up in frustration. Bags of icing were slammed down on the counter. Cake containers were thrown. Betty made it so that she couldn’t be ignored, but God help you if you asked her what was wrong. She complained that the icing was too soft, that the icing was too hard, when someone looked at her wrong, when someone looked at her too right, when things fell, when things got up, or if someone yawned, blinked, or breathed in her general direction.

And There It Was By Amarachi Wachuku

Overheard: Someone working

And there it was. It cascaded its shade upon their wistful brows and concluded that it was daylight still. Even so, they stayed inside. And without stopping, in a never ending cycle of hopeless figuring and work piled up to their knees, they continued clicking, writing, slamming, conversing, debating, yelling waiting for it all to end. Everyone seemed to do this never ending cycle of work. Even when their tired eyes begged for sleep. Even when their hands were tense and shaking from clicking away, or writing away. Even when their hearts ached for something more, something better outside.  Even so, there they sat still flapping their tongues, tensing their bodies over lit screens, and rubbing their eyes, that just kept staring on.  For their day was just too long. But it really wasn’t. The day was at its’ end, and the sunshine seemed to dim with every moment.  And no one seemed to mind, to care, or to stop and dream for even a moment as the sunlight began to vanish behind thick clouds.

But what was wrong with just sitting still and listening for the quiet hum of activity that filled the place? Couldn’t they feel the energy, the vibrancy, that overtook the passion of work?  So much so, that all one could do was sit still and try to think, breathe, and feel the art work of warmth that came from the window. Glass shimmering like never before, cascading shadows like it was almost done reaching its peak below the horizon, saying: “The day is done.”  It kept saying, “Go home all you work, go home all you wish and dream.  Life is more than work. Play and seek your future when the day is young.”

But no one heard this message. None at all. None, except for him. In the middle of the chaos, there he sat on the ground, leaning his head back on the wall; arms crossed and dignified staring out into the glass picture of the world. And there I joined him. Sitting on the other side of the world it seemed, for he and I were in different places. Far from work, from play we sat staring, watching the sun dip behind more shadows. And there we sat waiting and dreaming. Waiting and dreaming. Waiting for our life to start.