End Of Time
December 20th 2012, 6:00PM
“God predicted the world would fall,
When all his people only cared for riches,
Draught, Famine, War, Disease,
Traded for specks of Gold and Silver,
He'd send the army of hell,
To cleanse the world of our wickedness,
Before we ourselves destroy it,
After a year,
Only the strong survive,
He will fix the world,
Revert it to its former glory.”
“Earth is a failure, they have failed me. This is the last time they shall defy me.” God said looking down to the world. A man enters the room, his face is tight and stern. He have dead eyes, he wore a long white robe. His hair was tightly put up in a ponytail. He frowned bitterly in disgust.
“Sir, ready to start the cleansing ritual.” Said the man.
“Yes, send them down.” God ordered. He looks around, he sees the clouds all whistling with the wind. He approaches a golden throne in the middle of the room, its tangled with the clouds. He sits on it. He raises his hand to his forehead. “ I wish this wasn't necessary. But, my creation is killing many creatures. And destroying the planet. Some even deny my existence.”
“I understand. They have left you.”
“Sir Conner, I believe you have a message to send.” God said tired.
“I will send it now” Conner left with jealously ridden across his face. 'If I was ruler I wouldn't have let it go so far' he thought. He marched towards the door. He turned the knob and exited to the hall way. A man awaits.
“The Extermination will go as plan. Bring the request to he who shall not be named, and prepare for many new arrivals.” said Conner.
“Voldemort.” said the man. Conner punches him.
“No you, Idiot” Conner shouts, he lean in. And whispers softly “Satan.”
“Oh, The unholy one.”
“Yes, I swear your the stupidest angel in heaven.” The man is insulted.
“Sir Conner, what about the assassination.”
“I told you not to mention that here. But, it's planned for tomorrow.” Conner continues his walk down the hall.
* * * *
December 21, 2012. 7:13 pm.
Chicago, Illnois, United States.
I sniff the air as I looks the house up and down. It smelled like lavender and lilac. My two favourite smells. They reminded me of my mother and my mother's garden. I look at the mail box on it spells out in big bold letters, “LETTERMAN”. I take in a deep breath and knocked the cream wooden door. I hate being a journalist. Or at least being one who covers fluff pieces like the one I'm was doing now. 'Mrs Letterman's Cat turns 29 years old'. I didn't get any recognition. An old woman answers, her grey hair is tucked neatly in a bun, she wears a old unflattering dress and has old reading glasses on. She's holding a sick old cat in her arms.
“Hello, young lady, are you here for my interview on Mittens.” She asks.
“Yes, I'm Susan Knight, I'm from the Chicago Tribune. May I come in?” I ask.
“Of course” Mrs. Letterman opens the door. I enters the house. The walls are painted a muted tone, the floor boards creek as I walk towards the beige couch. Mrs. Letterman sits across from me. And lays the cat down next to her. I take a notepad out of my coat pocket. And I begins the interview.
“Your cat Mittens, is 29 years old. How did you meet.” I ask.
“My husband Harold hated dogs from the day he was born to the day he died. I loved animals so much, but our daughter Josie had a severe allergy to cats. After Josie left to go to med school I adopted Mittens.” Mrs. Letterman explains. I scribble down some notes. Then looked up at Mrs. Letterman.
“Some people would argue that keeping a cat alive for this long is a sin.” I continue.
“Well, I can't...” Mrs. Letterman stops and clenches her heart and falls down. I jump down and try to revive her, non use. She checks her pulse, then leap up. I rush to the phone. I dial 9-1-1, but no answer. I walk out to the living room and looks out the window. Outside, I see decaying corpses eating normal people. Blood and Gore everywhere. I couldn't even scream.
“Oh my god.” I think to myself 'I'm going to die.'
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