Apocalyptic Thought

Photo by  Erica Li  on  Unsplash Thelon rolls a one. Not to believe in luck is a very structed way to live life. Working throughout each day, with some thoughts to how the day is going to play out, due to the work that is done, the preparation that were completed, and the resolve in how to function with one’s tasks. It’s not a hard concept, nor one that that would be deemed odds by any means. This is the way millions of play out their lives. This is not the case in Dungeons and Dragons . “Halarai throws the dagger. It soars over the last goblin’s head, who didn’t flinch by the miss. Goblin’s turn. The rest of the party groan in unison. “The Goblin runs up to attack you, avenging his slaughtered party.” The DM, Andy, rolls his die. He looks up Thelon, then the rest of group. “Natural 20— critical hit.” Andy takes his time to explain the next action. “The Goblin slides his short sword in to your side, lodging it just underneath your studded leather chest

Photo by  Matthew Henry  on  Unsplash It’s quiet. Brittney can feel the room around her. A chill leaks from what only can be a window. A dampness floats around her. A fear pains her chest, shortening her breaths. It tightens the skin on her forearms. She thinks of the hair on them, and how she always meant to shave them; the dark, long follicles that make her feel manly. She frowns. Nobody cares about the hairiness of a dead, black woman. The cloth around her eyes is soft. It does not allow any light, yet it’s the most pleasurable experience of the past few days. Her nostrils flare, defending her from the pungent smell of mold. Her stomach flexes, threatening to project what little food was given to her.   Vomiting has been a concern for the last few hours, but she whisked it away. Thoughts of puking pass, but something catches her attention. Her eardrums pick up the soft vibrations the rest of her body ignores. Her lungs freeze. Someone was in the room with her

Photo by  Jeremy Beadle  on  Unsplash “You there?” “Yeah, I’m here.” It takes a long time for him to get the phone in his hand. That’s mostly because of the concussion, and he feels a bit weak. A beating always wore him out. “Good. We got him.” He was excited to deliver the news. Clients happy, he’s happy, but he has to figure out a quick story to give to his wife. She hasn’t seen him like this in a long while. She always gets queasy at the sight of blood.   That’s the only thing that surprised him; he wasn’t expected so much blood. He can probably get it cleaned up well before she gets home, but it is disappointing. It does suck getting old. # “You’re so funny.” Chuck doesn’t know how he got here. He’s getting coffee with a beautiful woman, 10 years his senior, who’s engaged with him. She knows so little, so it’s not like she’s in it for the money. Besides, dressed in cheap clothes he ordered online, no jewelry, and nothing in front of him but a

Photo by  Clem Onojeghuo  on  Unsplash “Adam has been very good to me.” The room continues to watch. Chris isn’t good at this kind of thing, and the eyes make him nervous. The eyes in the front row are unfamiliar, which does help out. People on Adam’s side of the wedding are scattered through the reception hall. Every person he recognizes is a bump on the path of a good speech delivery. Some of the faces they made signal like they’re waiting for a typical, terrible, best man speech. That was the speech he wrote on a napkin at the rehearsal dinner. They were giving him the option to talk though it, but he refused. He didn’t need to make himself sick two days in a row. Even that crowd, immediate friends and family, made him dry heave a bit. Brenda looked so beautiful, and Adam is so happy. It makes me think why I’m here. “I don’t deserve a friend like him.” Chris hears a sigh in the back. “I’m sorry, I’m not that good at this.” “This is…more emotional than I expec

Photo by  Wadi Lissa  on  Unsplash I ran for blocks. She’s the heaviest thing I ever carried. Cold, scared, crying…my little sister was going to die if I didn’t do anything. I’ve tried carrying her in my arms, which didn’t let me move as fast I wanted to. I stopped, and heaved her on one shoulder, but she kept making this gulping sound that made everything sound worst. I couldn’t think of how to carry her with the wound, because she won’t make it if we stay here. I settle for laying her behind my neck. The streets were empty. Typically, whenever a shot is fired, everybody clears out. Nobody wants trouble and nobody wants the blame of who was shot and what was hit. I figure I have a little leeway because I’m trying to be responsible. Fourteen years old, and I’m the only one being accountable My dad blames the government. My mom blames people who look like us. I blame myself. I should have convinced my sister to hurry up. She had new chalk she wanted to try out. She