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.