Close the door,

and open one,

are there better things still to come?

My heart weary,

My mind numb,

Keeping the bitterness on my tongue.

What I’ve said,

What I’ve done,

Lesson learned to never trust anyone.

Who is she,

Where’s she from?

Does she understand, she says she does!

Strangely beautiful,

Lots of fun,

I find myself, not wanting to run

Music can make your heart smile.

Tap feet or dance for a while.

Nod your head for no reason at all.

Simply put, in love, you fall.

Like my soul when I hear your voice.

My heart smiles. I don’t have a choice.

Not too fast or slow, not too high or low.

An indescribable speed at a perfect tone.

Yes, your face is cute and lovable,

It’s absolutely crushable,

But your voice, though, is what triggers

The chilling welcomed shivers.

Whatever you utter, my heart is aflutter.

I laugh at your joke, and you just crack another.

I know that I’m rather obsessive,

But your geek smarts are simply impressive,

At each morning’s glare, we have an affair

You aren’t quite aware, but I don’t care.

I find you on the hour,

Then, your presence overpowers.

You have children and a wife so dear.

But none of that stuff matters here.

There is one thing I want. I’ll be clear.

It’s that voice that I’m longing to hear.

Tell me of when the sun rises and sets.

Tell me, in summer, how hot it will get.

That water will freeze at thirty-two degrees.

And all of the leaves will fall off the trees.

Tell me of cities like Kalamazoo.

Of storming and raining and thundering too.

Of tropical islands and faraway lands,

Of quaint little towns and beaches of sand.

In the morn, I awake, glance over and sip.

I turn you on when the channel I flip.

Mr. Weatherman, now, you don’t have a choice.

Make love to my ears with your beautiful voice.

Every evening at half-past eight, our mother would tuck us quietly in

bed warning us not to move or make a sound. She’d tell us that she

would be off to find bread for tomorrow’s breakfast, empty her purse

of its last three coins, and fly off into the deep, dark night. Where

would she ever find bread? Which market is open at such a late hour?

I’d ponder these things ’til my eyes drifted shut.

I could see her roaming the dark, desolate streets, rummaging through

dumpsters and stale alley corners. I could see her rapping at the

windows of lackadaisical townsfolk, falling to her knees to beg for

crumbs. I could see her wandering through town way into the wee hours

as markets began to open even before the first sunrays took breath. I

could see her pushing through the gathering crowd, offering her three

coins, and being turned down. I could see her desperately lunging for

a loaf, quickly hiding it in her bosom, and turning away. I could see

her running like the wind through the throng, through the alleys,

through the streets on her bare feet, racing to keep under the night’s

shadow before it was completely swallowed by the day.

At last, as our windows would open their eyes to take in the morning

light, so would my brother and I. We’d stare at the door knowing that,

in a matter of moments, mother would burst through-- bread in hand.

She’d break it in three, and we’d sit in silence consuming the insipid

breakfast. The final morsel would always mysteriously taste a tad bit

delicious as my mind only attempted to fathom all the things she’d

gone through just to feed us.

(offering $ Juice!!!) I'm trying to write a novel for NaNoWriMo. I don't know if I'll get done due to my busy schedule, but I'm gonna try to dive in anyway. The problem is the fact that I have way too many ideas! I don't know which one of my concepts to settle on. There are so many characters that have so much potential in my opinion, and my brain is always so indecisive. Whoever helps to convince me of which genre novel to write will win the challenge (and get some juice as thanks!) You can write a short story, poem, or just discuss the reason why you like the genre you picked. Whichever entry conveys the message best will be chosen winner by me. I appreciate you all and wish you well on your own NaNoWriMo adventures! God bless! (link: https://theprose.com/challenge/9177 )

Sci-fi's my reality.

Drama roams my nightly dreams.

Horror creeps into my brain.

Action's pumping through my veins.

Rearranging history,

Rediscovering mystery.

Adventure waits at every turn.

Facts arrive, you're sure to learn.

Fantasy set to abound.

Magic floating all around.

Castles rising to the skies.

Many people. Sundry lives.

Reading things and hearing songs.

Writing words that string along.

Dancing through the varied lands

Imagination says I can.

Close my eyes, I wander on.

Although you don't notice I'm gone.

The worlds within this quirky soul

Are just too numerous to know.

Mr. Getton struggled to settle his bum into the not-so-comfortable futon in front of the picture window in Mrs. Agatha’s office.

“I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Getton. Just relax. Get comfortable.”

“I’m trying.”

“You can start whenever you’re ready.”

“Start what?”

“Telling me everything.”

“Everything?”

“From the very beginning.”

“Okay. It all started six nights ago. I was running through the forest and trees were burning incessantly all around me.”

“Trees all around you?”

“Yes. Definitely a wildfire.”

“And, what do you think this dream meant, Mr. Getton?”

“I’m not sure, Mrs. Agatha, but I believe that the apocalypse is upon us.”

“Why would you think that, Mr. Getton?”

“Because the next night, I dreamt an oil rig exploded, plunging straight into the sea.”

″...and?”

“The next night, I saw poison in the waters. Litter, lead, rust. People were dying drinking of it.”

“Hmm... All of the things you’ve dreamed of happen all the time. It isn’t like you’ve predicted anything, Mr. Getton. ”

“I know. I know. That’s the reason I believe the end is nigh. These things have already happened, so the world must be coming to an end.”

“They’ve happened over a large span of time, Mr. Getton.”

“I am fully aware...”

“I see... Have you been watching the news lately? Maybe your mind is restlessly troubled with current events that you can neither control or prevent.”

“I AM quite the empath, but I suppose the divine order of these intricately detailed visions means something more.”

“Interesting thought process. Have you had any more dreams since?”

“Yes. I dreamt the skylights were blocked out by clouds of pollution, and the days grew shorter. After that, I dreamt of earthquakes. Oh, terrible earthquakes! People all over the world were enduring endless torment.”

“What kind of torment?”

“All kinds. Horrible torture to the point of desiring a death that never came.”

“Desiring death... attempting suicide?”

“Yes. But to no avail. None of them died until last night when the war was waged. They died by armies of machines.”

“What types of machines?”

“All types. Wretched machines that spat scorching fire and smothering smoke.”

“And you say that was the dream you had last night, Mr. Getton?”

“Correct. That’s how I know the world will end tomorrow. My daughter doesn’t believe me. That’s why she sent me to the likes of you. Quackery, I say.”

″...”

“No offense. I just fail to realize the necessity of consulting a psychiatrist at the final hour. I should be completing my extreme bucket list-- skydiving, snorkeling, binge-watching my favorite sitcom-- not sitting on a futon staring at unidentifiable black blotches.”

“I understand your predicament, Mr. Getton, but, what if I told you the world really wasn’t going to end tomorrow?”

“I’d say you were absurdly naive. Can’t you read the writing on the wall?”

“Maybe I can’t.”

“Then you aren’t very clever. Maybe YOU should be the one sitting here on the futon.”

“I believe that’s all the time we have for today, Mr. Getton.”

“Thank heavens.”

“See you tomorrow, same time?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Agatha, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to make that appointment.”

“And, why is that?”

“Well, you see, tonight I will dream of the thunderstorm.”

“Thunderstorm?”

“Yes. The monstrous thunderstorm. Then, sad to say, the world will finally end.”

“Are you so sure?”

“Positively certain.”

“And, if you’re wrong?”

“I am NOT.”

“I know, Mr. Getton, but just suppose, hypothetically, you were somehow wrong...”

“Fine, Mrs. Agatha. If indeed I am wrong, you shall find me seated on this futon opposite you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Very well then. Good day, Mr. Getton.”

“Good day, Mrs. Agatha. Enjoy it. It’s the last one you’ll have on this planet.”

Mr. Getton arose and stepped out of the office. Mrs. Agatha took a sigh of relief, then glanced out at the overcast slowly creeping above the skyline. Her heart skipped a beat at the sound of distant thunder.

“Are you having temperature fluctuations?” said a booming voice.

“Yes,” came a melodic, singsong reply.

“Do you see flashing lights? Hear a constant buzzing?”

“Yes. Yes, exactly! And I have trouble breathing.”

“You have humans.”

A short pause, like a quiet desert at sunrise. “I was afraid of that.”

“Why did you wait so long to come to me?”

“I thought I could deal with it on my own,” said the cosmic singsong voice. “I tried famine, flood, drought, plague….”

“That won’t work,” the booming voice said. “They’ve spread everywhere. Filled your lungs with toxins, contaminated your blood. Without drastic measures, you won’t last 24 hours.”

A racing beat that pounded like an earthquake. “What kind of measures?”

“… Apocalypse.”

A sharp intake of breath that roared like a hurricane. “Not again. It took me years to get over the last one.”

“I’m afraid so. But we’ve had advancements since eradicating dinosaurs. The procedure will only take seven minutes. Recovery time will be a few months.”

“Seven minutes?” said the melodic voice, with a tremble that echoed like thunder. “Will it be painful?

“Yes…very. But you will be rid of humans forever.”

Another pause, like the dead of night. “I’ll do it…”

There was a violent jerk in my stomach and I shot backward through space, past streaks of stars, galaxies and planets, zoomed for a crash-landing on earth and sat bolt upright in bed.

What the hell was that?

Outside my window, a black shadow eclipsed the rising sun, turning the world a cold grey.

And a booming voice echoed in my head.

“Seven...”

The countdown had begun.