George’s apocalypse/ john grey

GEORGE’S APOCALYPSE By John Grey

Life is an accumulation of small, annoying things. George wishes that tap would stop leaking of its own accord. Besides which, the toaster isn’t working. Rain fills the bucket below where the roof leaks.

George is praying urgently to God. The omens are everywhere. He’s sure the apocalypse can’t involve just him. Yes, all this has to end sometime. But he’d hate to have to take it personally.

The neighborhood kids won’t let him off so easily. Their BB guns seem to know when he’s late on refilling his medication. Everything’s a mess. If only God would intervene on a small scale.

Okay so not apocalypse. Though who knows. The end of the world is more likely to sneak up on everybody rather than burst in like Rambo

brandishing all kinds of weapons. But there’s a whole lot of previews to be taken in before the real thing. Like George’s mother humming something by the Rolling Stones.

Or his daughter dating someone with a lip ring. That kid could even be the Antichrist, though he works in the kitchen of a fast food joint. But there’s those three buddies of his he always hangs with. What’s to say they’re not the four horsemen awaiting the right moment, the right mount.

Outside, the kids are shooting birds. And an old man is drunk and desperate, claims the FBI are on his tail. A storm rising in the west. Bullets firing, old man screaming. And the phone rings. A short conversation ensues. It’s the last thing his wife wants to hear. Her tears are as heavy as bowling balls. No wonder she can’t stand up straight. And the floors are filthy. TVs on the blink. And greasy hair in curlers will never be the style. George is not yet ready to float up with the angels of sizzle in the fires of hell.

But it’ll just happen, surely. And to him most of all.