A man came to my door today.
“I bring you doom.” He announced.
It was odd, I didn’t order doom, and knew no-one who’d send it to me, but here he was, and I’d no reason to doubt him.
He did look honest. He carried a clipboard.
I told him I’d no use for any doom.
“Just doing my job, sir.” He replied.
I couldn’t argue. It wasn’t his fault I didn’t want the doom he brought, and he likely had other deliveries to make.
I pondered a moment, took the clipboard, and signed my name.
And then I died.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
The Coming of the Doombringer
Labels: 100 words, Doom, Drabble, Short story
Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)
I stumbled upon your blog, and I really enjoyed this piece. It reminds me of an Anton Chekhov story that I read in the recent past. It ends in a similarly meaningless, somewhat ludicrous death. I envy your determination to write everyday - perhaps I would benefit from following your example!