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Moon-something phobia

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There was once a man in a town that was afraid of something. He was petrified that the moon would explode.

Nobody was completely sure this man was telling the truth, or was just plain crazy, but this man was for sure a maniac.


A homicidal maniac.


He had killed at least two people in his conquest to prove his theory was correct, going to the furthest resorts of his physical strength to break free of the handcuffs that were keeping him in that police car. Even the police were on him.


Soon enough, though, he had built his own little shack out in a small clearing in the dark woods where he set up a homemade telescope somewhere facing up at the elegant, starry skies. That telescope, however, was surprisingly good for one made at home by someone as cracked as that nutty old man.

He was always hunched over that old, large bucket, serving as a desk, calculating away to predict exactly when the moon would explode. He constantly peered at the sky through his roughly accurate telescope to track the trajectory of that “giant silver disc”, as he described it. He waited patiently, the little shack soon bursting with crumpled papers, sketches decorating the wooden-planked walls that depicted the exploding moon, some even scribbled on with the sloppy words, “END of THE WORLD”.


As long as the police searched for that unseen, messy old cottage, they remarkably never found it. They used their best bloodhounds and even resorted to jet planes with infrared detectors, but the man was almost as cold as everything else around there.

The man was a scrawny old fellow, ribcage easily showing through his dirty shirt. He smelled really bad, for the fact that he never took showers, thinking they were unnecessary since the world was to end, anyway. For food, he scavenged, picking raw meat off the leftovers of other creatures’ prey. Evidently, he lacked the nutrients necessary for life, but he desperately hung on that last ray of “hope” he had to see the petrified faces of the people who contradicted him all the time.


Soon enough, New Year’s Eve came. The 2012 “apocalypse” he predicted was just hours away. He ran from his shack, through the dark, shady woods and to the square of the bustled town adorned with colorful lights. There, he ignored the weird stares people were giving him and he screamed, ”The world’s gonna’ end!” at the top of his lungs.

Time just seemed to stop with that statement and everyone froze for a second, staring, glaring and making snide remarks. Some guy flipped his cell phone and dialed some numbers, murmuring some thoughts relevant to the situation, and talking into it. Not very later, the cops came with their blinding red and blue lights, jumping out of the car and surrounding the crazy old man.


Of course, this time, the old man wasn’t as strong as he was before, but there were only two policemen too, so he made a quick run for it, sprinting away from them, away from that stupid old city and towards his safe, little shack where he huddled in the corner, breathing heavily from that effort to run.

Again, the police didn’t catch him and he got away once more.


Nothing happened on January 1st. Nor on January 2nd. Soon, it was February and the old man was beginning to lose enthusiasm. A whole month had passed by with no exploding moon.

But soon enough, it was March, and the timeworn man had a hunch this day was going to be like no other.


Early that morning, a chill breeze blew through the almost empty town, only a few citizens here and there, people opening shops at 6:00 in the morning. An hour later, the sun showed its bright, golden rays in the east and it was unexpectedly scorching with heat.

The people were sweating a few minutes afterwards, taking shelter from the blistering intensity of that brighter-than-ever sun under whatever there was around that offered protective shadow. The man in his shack had to go outside to avoid being cooked alive in his steaming hut, taking out a few of his instruments to vividly check something.



Once he was sure everything was in place, he, again, scampered to the town to yell, “The world’s gonna’ end! This time it’s true!”


As always, the people got out of their shelter, under trees, between alleys, and even under a pole to glare at him menacingly. The old man didn’t flinch, but as the sun seemed to unexplainably grow, the cement got too hot to bear, even through thick shoes. The trees were shriveling up with the heat, birds suddenly falling from the sky to land, semi-roasted, on the boiling floor.


Everyone grew blinded as the sun exploded, sending shockwaves across their epic world. Everything and everyone blew up and there was just nothing but a plume of galactic debris and ‘smoke’ that was where the poor world was previously.


Well, it wasn’t the moon, after all! Ha. …

The Wonderful End.





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