[Don Jones]

This can't be topped, John.

You raised the bar too high!

Don

[basil ransome-davies]

THE DAY OF DOOM
As an advertising copywriter Rufus had taken little interest in eschatology. It seemed inimical to the values of his profession, both far-off and negative. As an unemployed casualty of financial meltdown, he felt differently. His world was now needy and precarious, letting in spirituality through the cracks. He feared being called to account for his paid advocacy of smoking and unhealthy foods. Net-surfing, he discovered a poem, 'The Day of Doom', by a 17th-century puritan divine, Michael Wigglesworth. Milton it wasn't, but it deepened his anxiety. He grew obsessive. His nights were guiltily troubled by fantasies of the Inferno, as Wigglesworth's had been by adolescent wet dreams.
It was a strained, woeful time. But when a partial economic recovery offered him work again, lifting the cloud of Calvinist gloom, Rufus found that he had a novel approach, and a daring new slogan, for selling life assurance.

[John Whitworth]

Bazza, your opening sentence is sheer genius. A fiver says you win.

[basil ransome-davies]

I admit to being proud of it meself. It kick-started the whole thing.

[George Simmers]

The Day of Doom

Today was A-Level results day, but that was the least of Nigel's problems. The inevitable exposure of a year's idleness and truancy was as nothing to the fact that his employer had discovered his tricks with the petty cash, and would call in the police that morning. Potentially even worse was Gemma's arrest for possession of cocaine. She was bound to name her dealer.

Nigel felt utter despair.

Fortunately, however, this Thursday was the day on which the Almighty decided to wreak his judgement on humanity. Because Nigel's parents had in his infancy wisely arranged to have him baptised according to the rites of the Peculiar Elect (a sect most pleasing to the eyes of the Lord) he was immediately admitted to bliss everlasting, while his teachers, his employer and most of the local police were condemned without appeal to fire and excruciating torment. He tried not to feel smug.

[R. S. Gwynn]

Not quite what Dr. Lucy ordered, but I thought I'd share it anyway.

5/21/11

Darlin’, I’ll be in here crappin’; if the Rapture starts to happen
Please alert me while I perch upon my throne,
For the good and godly people will float higher than the steeple,
And I’d hate to be here sittin’ all alone.

If the Son or Holy Wraith’ll let me wipe I’ll join the faithful
And ascend into the clouds to Kingdom Come;
I’ll be like a dove to handle, and I’ll even join the band, I’ll
Resolutely sound the summons on the drum.

What a sight will be there for us as we sing among the chorus
Of the strong who never heard the heathen call!
They’ll be cryin’ by the carful, and their anguish will be awful;
They’ll deserve it–men and women, babes and all!

We’ll rest on our cloudy pillows, not a’weepin’ like the willows
While the saintly sexton tolls the seventh bell.
You and I shall be quite comfy when the billions of the bumfy
Get the flush that sends ‘em on their way to hell.

[basil ransome-davies]

This one is getting people going, poets & prose writers alike. The topic's a biggie, of course. No wonder the Revelation of St John the Divine is not only the last but the most freakily exciting book of the bible. I'd love to see Cronenberg film it.

[Roger Slater]

"Call it," God said.

"Heads," I answered.

God flicked a coin into the cloud above him. I craned my neck and watched it sail past a choir of cherubim and glitter in a white light of surpassing purity before it fell back into God's outstretched palm where he covered it discreetly.

"Are you sure? Are you willing to stake eternal bliss on it?"

I wanted to say that fifty-fifty was better odds than I had expected, but I held my tongue when I noticed his eyes darting sideways. After a life of poker, I knew I had him.

"Yeah," I repeated. "Heads."

"Damn!" Waving me through the Pearly Gates, he whined, "You win."

[John Whitworth]

Discreetly, Roger.

Alas, though Lucy nowhere SAYS that a short story cannot be in verse - and what are, say, Crabbe's Tales, or Chaucer's Canterbury ones, except short stories, I fear she won't wear it and neither a work of genius like Sam's, nor my quite risible effort, will make it past the cut. Ah, we rhymesters have a hard row to hoe these days, so we do.

However, I'm going to send mine in. Why not? It costs nothing. Incidentally how much DOES an email cost? Is it literally nothing? No wonder the Post Office is on the rocks.

[basil ransome-davies]

Roger's god who cannot disguise his emotions sounds like Mailer's fallible, 'existential' god. I sympathise, since I always lacked the sophistication to mask my feelings & had to forswear a lucrative life as a poker honcho (that's apart from the deathbed promise to my mother, of course).

But I still lose if I play cards for imaginary stakes online. How does that work?