End of the World Never Came by James Hritz

Pastor killed all his pets—to protect their souls—the local paper had announced the day before the rapture had been foretold by a soothsayer. PETA was up his ass. The police were investigating. Parishioners wanted their donations back.

As an atheist, first thought was to laugh in his old, foolish face. But everyone wanted that too.

Instead, I bought a handle of Jack, left it on his porch, with a note: “Life’s a lot quieter without someone banging around in the attic. Let’s talk about your next move.”

But the phone never rang.

No one had seen him since the day passed. His wife was staying with her sister and wasn’t talking. His webpage went down—server crashed.

Sunday went by without him hearing any prayers. The locks had been changed on the church doors—locksmiths couldn’t even get in.

My mother emails daily with updates, even though there is no word from Pastor himself. She asks for me to pray for him. I tell her I will, like I always promise. But I’m more concerned about whether some teenager stole my Jack.

Two days later, smoke seeped from the bell tower. Doors get axed in.

Pastor was finally seen stoking a hearth built in front of the altar, dropping radios and TVs and computers and other blasphemy into a foundry cauldron so he could mold new crosses.

To my bemusement, Pastor’d used my Jack to rise the spirits of the flames when they needed to burn more righteously.

James was born and lives in Sonoma, CA, although he graduated from a pair of Ohio universities. Currently, he is implementing a creative writing class for adults with developmental disabilities at Becoming Independent (a day program in Northern California). Previously published fiction can be viewed at Blood Lotus, The Fabulist, Stone Highway Review (forthcoming), and Southpaw Journal (Editor’s Choice selection). His poetry can be enjoyed in Psychic Meatloaf, The Monarch Review, and Breadcrumb Scabs (forthcoming).