Below you will find the results of my having challenged myself for a number of days to write a short story with a beginning and middle and an end inside of 30 minutes. Here is what I came up with. I hope you like it.
The world was supposed to end. It didn’t. Man, breakfast was awkward, the next morning.
I didn’t know if I was the only one who hated Uncle Sean, but I suspected I was actually one of several. That morning, he shoveled beans into his mouth and spoke in the Boston accent that made him sound like he’d sustained a head injury.
Why hadn’t the world ended, Uncle Sean? You’ve been telling us for years.
“Somebody did it wrong,” was his answer.
Uncle Sean spent the next two days conspicuously avoiding the subject of Armageddon. His “wife,” Rebecca, moved like a cold draft through the second floor of the communal house. Every few minutes, you’d hear her slam a wooden spoon onto the counter or slam a door.
Someone wrote “Sean eats Gerald Ford’s asshole on TV” in marker on the fridge.
Ordinarily, this would have resulted in a few days of fasting and enforced prayer (I assume it would have; no-one had ever done anything so brazenly confrontational before.) Instead, Sean smiled sheepishly, as if to say “Yeah, I know you guys are pissed. Turns out we were living a lie.”
Sean said he was driving out to Idaho to meditate, to find out what The Lord had really meant. Three days later, they found his car less than 20 miles from the communal house. He had gone to track down The Lord, looking for answers. He barely made it into Connecticut.
They never found his head.
It was probably his brother who did it.