Young Writers Society

(a short story I wrote for an assignment in university)

“Well, that’s certainly the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard.”

Perhaps if I had been ten years younger, my aunt would have believed me out of sheer concern, or if I had been ten years older, she would have believed me out of pure confusion. But because I was eighteen, and known for crying wolf, she just laughed.

“I’m serious,” I persisted, following her as she crossed from one side of the kitchen to the other. “I saw it, in my dreams. It was like, a- uh, a premonition!”

“So, you dreamt that the world was going to end? If you go back to bed now, you’ll probably dream that you saved it, now leave me alone, I’ve got food to cook.”

AShe banged a pot down on the stove and pushed me aside. It was six in the morning, Christmas morning, and my aunt had been allocated to the kitchen by her husband, to keep her out of his way. She wasn’t even a particularly good cook. I had just awoken in a sweat; a prophecy having been thrown upon me in my sleep.

“I’m not joking this time; I’ve had dreams like this before and they always come true - I predicted the crop failure last year! The world is going to end today and there’s nothing we can do.”

“Elizabeth Jane Buckley, get out of my kitchen before I spank you a new arsehole with my wooden spoon.”

“But-”

“Out.”

“Fine. It was nice knowing you, Auntie.”

If I hadn’t lied about the chickens escaping last Christmas, or that we had been robbed the Christmas before that, my aunt might have believed me now. It just became a tradition for me to lie about something every Christmas morning since I moved in with my aunt and uncle on their farm. It always seemed funny at the time, but now, in retrospect, it had been a very stupid tradition to start because now no one believed anything I said on Christmas day. I could be dying, my limbs all hanging off, and screaming that I needed help and they would just roll their eyes and sigh and say “Elizabeth, stop lying.”

My uncle was sitting in the lounge, cigar in his mouth, a battered old book on his lap, eyes closed. He was almost comically large, spilling out of his special red chair. He rarely moved, using his many children to get him what he needed. I was sure if he stood up, a thick layer of dust would fall off him. When I entered the room, he glanced in my direction and sighed.

“Go back to bed, Elizabeth,” he said. “It’s too early. Santa’s not been yet.”

“I’m eighteen, Uncle. I know Santa's not real.”

“That’s not what you said last Christmas.”

“I just came to warn you that the world is going to end this evening. I thought you might like to know so that you can, you know, say goodbye to your loved ones.”

“Your lies aren’t funny, Elizabeth, and they never have been. If you’re that bored go and see if any of your cousins are awake. Don’t let them come downstairs.”

I laughed. “Well, enjoy spending your last day on earth stuck in an armchair. When the fire engulfs us, you won’t be able to outrun it.”

I left before I heard his reply.

Upstairs, my cousins were all asleep, which was boring. They were all younger than me and were all going to die this evening anyway, so what was the point in waking them up? My room was at the end of the hall, tucked away around the corner next to the airing cupboard that I used to hide my cigarettes in when I smoked for a week or so last year. There was probably still a carton of Marlborough’s hidden on the top shelf, and what a better time to start smoking again than the end of the world? I pulled down the handle and swung the door open just to be jump scared by a tiny, skinny little kid with no hair.

“Oh shit.”

The kid didn’t appear startled. It just looked up at me and said, “Egg.”

It definitely wasn’t one of my cousins because as far as I could remember, none of my cousins had cancer. Was that a cruel thing to think?

“Egg?” I said back in confusion.

“Egg.” It confirmed.

“Who are you?”

It looked up at me with these blank eyes and said “Egg” again.

“Where did you come from?”

“Egg.”

All it said was egg. My dream did not include a small, emaciated child named Egg but the only explanation that seemed to fit was that Egg had been sent here to aid in the coming apocalypse. Perhaps Egg himself was God. And I don’t know about anyone else, but if I met God, I would treat him with respect and not leave him in the airing cupboard.

“You smoke, Egg?” I asked, reaching above its head for my carton of Marlborough’s. Of course, it just said ‘Egg’ and followed me as I headed back downstairs and out into the garden. Egg was maybe four foot, skinny, and wearing a hospital gown. Its head was shaved, and it had no eyebrows. It seemed strange to me that God would take the form of a genderless child going through chemotherapy but like the church always told me on Sunday mornings, the lord works in mysterious ways.

I lit the cigarette and took the first drag before offering it to Egg. He accepted and inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke out of his nose.

“Egg,” it said, handing the cigarette back.

“Egg,” I agreed and walked in the direction of the barn. From atop the barn, you could see the entire village and more, set out against a backdrop of miserable, grey sky. Not a very happy looking Christmas.

“It’ll look a lot more pretty when the sky is burning tonight.”

“Egg.”

We finished the cigarette between us as we sat on the roof of the barn, watching as the sun slowly rose. This would be the last sunrise either of us saw; well, I assumed Egg would return to its God form once the world ended. Perhaps it would create more sunrises and sunsets for itself - I didn’t know what kind of mystical powers God actually held and it didn’t seem like asking would yield many answers. It must have now been about eight or nine in the morning, which seemed pretty late to me as there were like a hundred cousins who needed to open presents before Christmas dinner at noon, and so I scrambled gracefully off the roof of the barn and slid back down the ladder. Egg followed, looking sombre. Well, I couldn’t really tell what expression it had on its face; I couldn’t even tell what gender it was. They said in church that God was neither man nor woman, but God is always referred to as ‘He’ with a capital H. Before today, I wouldn’t have considered myself religious but having smoked a fag with a godlike presence had changed my mind just a little. That, and the impending apocalypse.

My aunt sighed as I walked back through the kitchen door.

“Elizabeth-” she started.

“Auntie, I just wanted to see how Christmas dinner was coming along, since I am really looking forward to it. No lies anymore - I’m a changed woman.”

She laughed. Then she looked down at the carrots she was chopping and laughed again. There was a genuine smile on her face; well, it looked genuine. Who could tell? She could be smiling because she was planning how she was going to cut me up into tiny pieces and bake me into the mince pies.

“Elizabeth,” she said again, putting her knife down. “Merry Christmas.”

“Oh,” I hadn’t anticipated that as an answer. “Well, Merry Christmas to you too, seeing as it is our last.”

“Go and see your uncle again, Elizabeth. He has a present for you to open.”

“Well, I should hope so, seeing as it is Christmas morning.”

My uncle had, surprisingly, moved from his chair and was standing by the window. He handed me the book he had been reading earlier. It was a copy of Shirley Jacksons’ The Sundial.

“I suppose you think this is funny?”

“No,” he said, laughing. “I just think you’d like it.”

“I’ve already read it, Uncle. The world ends.”

“Or does it? I think you’ll find that actually-”

A loud clap of thunder interrupted him, and we both turned to face the window. It was raining very hard. Biblically hard.

“Well Egg,” I said, moving away from my uncle. “Looks like the sky won’t be burning after all, but instead we’ll dr-”

But Egg was gone.

“Come on Elizabeth,” my uncle laughed cheerily. “The book was only a joke. Go get your cousins up, and we’ll start opening more presents. Blimey. Looks like it’s going to rain for forty bleedin’ days and forty bleedin’ nights.”