The Apocalypse Thread
So, as I've mentioned before,merry_fates is kind of awesome, and they do monthly watcher prompts. I posted one before, and so, umm, here's another, much, much shorter than that other one. Sorry if it sucks, only reread it as I was typing it up, and I'm ill/in school/writing climax.
Prompt was this (along with the Heroes premiere and a craving for waffles, plus some Chem-related droning in the background):
My sister and I live at the end of the world.
It’s called the Apocalypse Thread and it’s the version of the world that’s always ending. There’s a million different futures happening at the same time. The Apocalypse Thread is what we call any one where it’s all ending. Volcanoes and asteroids and earthquakes and nuclear wars, there’s a million different ways we go out-we even found a thread once where some species of butterflies going extinct toppled the food chain.
The trick with riding the this thread is to figure out what’s causing the end, and jump just before it all hits the fan.
Well, what did our parents expect us to do with our lives when they named us Fate and Destiny?
***
It was a political crisis thread this time, a war zone, and there were about six hours to go until the end of the world. I was out buying milk. The people I passed on the street were running and screaming.
We were squatting in an abandoned house full of rubble of soda cans, something that used to be a manor and now just had chipping blue paint. A wire hung from the ceiling where there used to be a chandelier.
“Hey Des,” I call when I open the door, making my way to our main room, the one with the lack of a chandelier and bricked-up doors. Des’ running a coffeepot on a camp stove I’d looted out of a Target yesterday. “Last one they had,” I say as I hand over the carton.
“It’s sour,” she says before even opening it. Des is younger by two whole years-sixteen to my eighteen-but she had this incredibly obnoxious habit of acting like she was in charge. She studies the milk, pouring some into her coffee cup and indeed, the smell of sour milk fills the room.
“Must’ve turned off the refrigerator for a while,” I reason, going over to the window. We’re in the city, on the second floor.
There’s a boy standing on the sidewalk across the street, about the same age as me, with blond stripes in brown hair. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and drainpipe jeans, Chucks and a black sweatshirt.
The sweatshirt’s got piano keys along the hood and the sleeves. I know this even though I can’t see it, because I’ve seen him before. He was in the zombie thread, the pyroclastic surge thread, the latest nuclear thread.
And every one of those was in a different city. Across the world.
“I want waffles,” Des says. “Think that diner down the street is still open?”
I shrug. “Probably.” If there’s anything that consistently stays open through the end of the world, it’s diners.
***
The diner-Lefty’s, it’s called-is indeed open. A waitress too young for her name tag to really read “Mavis” seats us in the back and gives us a menu.
A man runs past the window, screaming his head off.
Des ignores him because she’s studying the menu, and I ignore him because I’m studying the booth behind us.
Des starts talking about Belgium, and I get up, sitting down opposite the stripe-haired kid, who’s devouring a stack of pancakes. He looks up in mild surprise. He’s got brown eyes, and maybe he’s a year younger than me, actually.
“You’ve been following us,” I accuse, both hands laying flat on the table.
He blinks. “You’ve been following me.”
And that's kind of all I got. Yep. Given up reading to make my deadline, watching movies with friends tonight, it's a cold and rainy weekend (yay!) and I'm coughing every two seconds.
Prompt was this (along with the Heroes premiere and a craving for waffles, plus some Chem-related droning in the background):
My sister and I live at the end of the world.
It’s called the Apocalypse Thread and it’s the version of the world that’s always ending. There’s a million different futures happening at the same time. The Apocalypse Thread is what we call any one where it’s all ending. Volcanoes and asteroids and earthquakes and nuclear wars, there’s a million different ways we go out-we even found a thread once where some species of butterflies going extinct toppled the food chain.
The trick with riding the this thread is to figure out what’s causing the end, and jump just before it all hits the fan.
Well, what did our parents expect us to do with our lives when they named us Fate and Destiny?
***
It was a political crisis thread this time, a war zone, and there were about six hours to go until the end of the world. I was out buying milk. The people I passed on the street were running and screaming.
We were squatting in an abandoned house full of rubble of soda cans, something that used to be a manor and now just had chipping blue paint. A wire hung from the ceiling where there used to be a chandelier.
“Hey Des,” I call when I open the door, making my way to our main room, the one with the lack of a chandelier and bricked-up doors. Des’ running a coffeepot on a camp stove I’d looted out of a Target yesterday. “Last one they had,” I say as I hand over the carton.
“It’s sour,” she says before even opening it. Des is younger by two whole years-sixteen to my eighteen-but she had this incredibly obnoxious habit of acting like she was in charge. She studies the milk, pouring some into her coffee cup and indeed, the smell of sour milk fills the room.
“Must’ve turned off the refrigerator for a while,” I reason, going over to the window. We’re in the city, on the second floor.
There’s a boy standing on the sidewalk across the street, about the same age as me, with blond stripes in brown hair. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and drainpipe jeans, Chucks and a black sweatshirt.
The sweatshirt’s got piano keys along the hood and the sleeves. I know this even though I can’t see it, because I’ve seen him before. He was in the zombie thread, the pyroclastic surge thread, the latest nuclear thread.
And every one of those was in a different city. Across the world.
“I want waffles,” Des says. “Think that diner down the street is still open?”
I shrug. “Probably.” If there’s anything that consistently stays open through the end of the world, it’s diners.
***
The diner-Lefty’s, it’s called-is indeed open. A waitress too young for her name tag to really read “Mavis” seats us in the back and gives us a menu.
A man runs past the window, screaming his head off.
Des ignores him because she’s studying the menu, and I ignore him because I’m studying the booth behind us.
Des starts talking about Belgium, and I get up, sitting down opposite the stripe-haired kid, who’s devouring a stack of pancakes. He looks up in mild surprise. He’s got brown eyes, and maybe he’s a year younger than me, actually.
“You’ve been following us,” I accuse, both hands laying flat on the table.
He blinks. “You’ve been following me.”
And that's kind of all I got. Yep. Given up reading to make my deadline, watching movies with friends tonight, it's a cold and rainy weekend (yay!) and I'm coughing every two seconds.