by Robert Lowell
pretty surprised when he destroyed the world. He'd
sworn, if he was ever caught behind that light
again, that endless, bloody, red light, he was
going to have a wank. No one would care. They
wouldn't even notice. They were all texting, or
chatting, or primping, or whatever-the-hell,
And there was
just something about Carolinda in her pink bikini
that called to him. Her hint of a smile on the
glossy page; her soft-brown, Brazilian skin; the
way she seemed to say, "This is the best
bottle of beer ever!" in her cute, Spanish
accent . . . Wait . . . Portuguese?
But as Harry
tugged, hands in his pants, the light changed to
yellow going the other way.
He willed the
light in front of him red with every fiber of his
being, demanding that it stay red, insisting that
it stay red, until . . . until . . . until he
shattered time and space.
you stupid prat."
An old man in
robes and a white, flowing beard glared at him,
the world behind Him a swirling, amorphous mass
of red, yellow, and green.
The man gave
Harry the finger. "It's free will, not free
your willy! You broke it, you bought it, wanker!"
see what the big deal was. Seven days? Try seven
but he didn't care, he let the light turn red.
Carolinda could wait: wait in the cars next to
him, wait in the cars behind him, wait in the
coffee shop on the corner, wondering, "Oh my
God, what is that man doing?"
spectacular anywhere she was: crossing the street,
screaming and swearing in his rearview, getting
pushed along in that stroller by Carolinda.
The last man
on Earth closed his eyes. Thirty more seconds . .
He ignored the
clack of the hammer clicking back on the Dirty
Harry pistol pressed to his temple.
man said, "Sorry, mate, it's smitin' time. I
like what you did to the place, but my Mum is
really brassed off."
Thirty more seconds!"