The day after the day after tomorrow.

I arrived suddenly, and knew for certain that I was in the best place. It was warm and calm and I stood quietly in the moment, waiting for my turn. But, I quickly realized I was alone. Figuring my wait would be short; I let out a breath releasing the smoke from my lungs and viewed my new environment. All around me the black tar covered ground seemed endless, as if I stood in the parking lot for the world’s demise. Its emptiness ran undisturbed to the limits of my sight, and I thought, “When does it all get here?” Then, as I dropped my spent cigarette to the ground, intending to snub it out with the toe of my boot, something caught my eye.

At the hem of my faded, old black shirt was a white thread and without reflection I pulled it. As I pulled, it continued to reveal itself. So I continued to pull, believing that my shirt would soon unravel. But instead, my shirt remained intact while the string started to wind around itself, twining, until it became as thick as a hangman’s rope. With both my hands I began to work against gravity to slow it down, but it quickly stole my grip allowing the rope to spill out, coiling at my feet. When it stopped its fall, the weight of it almost pulled me over and I realized it must be connected to me. I pulled up my shirt and discovered it cleanly attached to the center of my chest.

Then I noticed smoke coming up from the center of the pile and realized the rope had coiled itself around my still lit cigarette. I frantically began to kick at the rope, fearing that it would fuse its way to my heart, igniting it. My success gave way to alarm as I heard from behind me the approaching sound of children’s laughter. When I turned, they were upon me. Several of them grabbed the rope and ran past me. As I watched the rope begin to take off I grabbed for it, but it slipped in my hand. When it disconnected from my chest I fell to the ground and grabbed for its end, but it trailed off behind them, leaving an inky trace.

I remained on my knees. A dull pain echoed in my chest as I watched the children huddle together holding hands to ears, whispering. Several of them looked over at me, but quickly returned to their attention to the group. I felt like an idiot. Oddly, they seemed unfazed by my presence and began to jump rope, their laughter in time with its swooshing rhythm. So, I asked them “Don’t you know you’re playing with the end of me?” My reply came in the most unexpected way, as the smallest of all the children approached me with the seeping end of the rope, smiled and said, “It’s your turn.”



p.s. I’m always fucking late.