The End of the World

by Andrew Biss

  “No!” she boomed. “You’re far too bound up in your western concepts of truth and meaning. You feel the hot breath of death against your neck and still you reach down to see if your wallet is still there.”

  “I won’t, I promise. There’s nothing in it anyway.”

  “On the other hand, a brief look at your brief life shows that you didn’t kill or cheat or swindle your way through it. You didn’t sell your soul to reach your goal.”

  “No, I didn’t. Though I didn’t really have a goal either. Not that I would’ve, though.”

  “And that is good, because the place of return for self-serving parasites is a very bleak place indeed: a raped landscape of black roads they are forced to travel, leading to faceless, colourless buildings that offer them nothing but cold comfort and a lifetime of insignificance. This is not a good place to be, trust me. Even a Bulgarian would find it tough going.”

  “And…that’s not me, right? I mean…just to be sure,” I asked nervously.

  “No. No, for you it’s different. For you – for better or worse – it is back to the ordinary human world to live the ordinary human life. The rest is up to you – make it count.”

  “I will…yes, I will,” I assured her. “I’m going to do great things. I’m going to make an impact. I’m going to be remembered, not just after my death – my next death – but for generations to come. I’ll be in books of record and journals of note. I’ll be brought up at dinner parties and quoted in lectures. I’ll be referenced and re-evaluated, revered and reinterpreted. I’ll make an indelible mark that will never be erased.”

  Mrs. Anna looked at me with a strange smile on her face. “Or maybe, if you’re really lucky…you’ll just be content.”

  “Yes…or content. I’m sure I could be happy with that, too.”

  “For what it’s worth, I think you have a much better chance at making your indelible mark. But what do I know? I’m just the hired help.”

  “Either one sounds nice,” I said, agreeably.

  Mrs. Anna pulled a handkerchief from inside her sleeve and blew her nose in it quite vigorously. “Very well, then,” she sniffed. “If you’re sure you’re ready.”

  “I am,” I said, decisively.

  “I must warn you, though – it’s not pretty back there. Never was, but now it’s just getting faster and nastier. The ice is melting, the sea is rising, the oil’s drying up and the sheep have cataracts. It’s all coming to an end. And the closer it gets, the harder they push on their accelerators. You really want to go back to that?”

  “I do. I want to know more. I want to see more, feel more. It may well be all the things you say it is but there’s still something about it that I just can’t resist. And if it is all coming to an end, then…well, I’d like to have just a little more before it’s gone.”

  “As you wish,” she shrugged. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  As she started to leave the room, I felt a sudden sense of panic. After all, I had absolutely no idea what it was I was about to be subjected to. “Mrs. Anna?” I called after her.

  She stopped in the doorway and turned. “Yes,” she answered with an irritated sigh.

  “What’ll it feel like?”

  “Rebirth, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  She mopped her brow with her soiled handkerchief and briefly pondered my question. “Well…do you remember what it felt like when you were born the last time?”

  “No...no, not really,” I replied. “I was very young.”

  “Too bad. Anyway, it’ll be something like that. You’ll feel snug and enclosed, surrounded by warm fluids, a soothing rhythmic sound echoing all around you, constantly being moved about – sometimes fast, sometimes slow – and then before you know it…out you pop!”

  “It sounds nice,” I said, feeling more reassured by her description.

  “It is, from all accounts. ‘Cleansing’ is the word I hear used most often to describe it. All right, stay there – I will fetch the top loader,” she said, before disappearing out of the door.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A Clean Start

  Top loader? What was that? Something to do with the top of my head? Clamps and wires attached to my skull? Perhaps they tapped into your brain impulses and cranial activity and what have you as a means of transporting you back. It all sounded a bit Flash Gordon to me, but still…why not? I’m sure time could stop here just the same as it could anywhere else. After all, my father was stuck in the 1970s long after it was fashionable. Long after it became fashionable again, in fact. Interesting, I thought.

  My reverie was interrupted by the sound of squeaking wheels. Presently Mrs. Anna appeared, pushing before her a large, battered, rusty-looking washing machine. This, needless to say, was not something that had entered into my conjecture.

  “Here we are,” she said, as she tipped it upright in the middle of the floor.

  “What’s that?” I asked, more as an expression of bafflement than an actual question.

  “What does it look like?” she said, as she unwound a power cord from the back of the contraption and plugged it into the nearest wall socket. “It’s a washing machine.”

  “Yes, but that’s…that’s…”

  “Old – yes, I know. So sorry we don’t have all the mod cons for such distinguished company. I guess your pampered little soul will just have to make do.”

  “I’m not complaining, I’m just–”

  “Consider yourself lucky,” she chafed. “Not so long ago we were still using washboards – and that made for a very rough ride, from all accounts.”

  “Yes, I’m…I’m sure this is much nicer. Just, um…well, not exactly what I was expecting.”

  “Well, that’s life – and you wanted more of it, so get in,” she ordered.

  “Inside it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right…right you are then.” I hesitated for a moment, the peculiarity of the situation forcing me to question whether this was all some sort of bizarre joke she was playing on me. “Right now?” I asked.

  “Of course right now – unless you have something more important to do?”

  “No…no, right,” I said, as I tentatively climbed inside of the rusting hulk, trying to keep my balance as I did so. As I stood there, waist-high in the machine, with Mrs. Anna fiddling with the controls, I began to feel quite silly. After a while though, and much to my surprise, I soon found myself beginning to feel quite at home in it. Almost as if I’d been there before.

  As she continued to twist and turn the various knobs and dials on the rear of the appliance, a question of pure practicality came to mind. “Mrs. Anna?” I called out.

  “Now what?” she griped.

  “This may seem like an odd question, but…does it need…you know…soap powder or something?”

  “No, no, no – a good rinse is all you need.”

  “And, um…fabric softener?”

  “Certainly not!” she exclaimed, as she came back around to the front of the machine. “Someone like you – are you crazy? You can’t afford to be any softer than you are already. You’d last even less time than before. What you need is a good soak in hard water to toughen up that sensitive skin of yours.”

  “Yes…yes, I’m sure you’re right,” I said, as the water level in the machine began to steadily rise. “You strike me as a very wise woman, Mrs. Anna – very wise indeed.”

  “Me? Hah!” she laughed. “I am not wise, I just talk a lot. I only met one wise person in my entire life – and I’ve had a long one, trust me. It was a gentleman who came through here some time ago by the name of Marcel…Marcel Proust. Perhaps you know him?”

  “Not personally, no.”

  “Such a wonderful man,” she said, reverently, her face suddenly brighter and more animated than I’d ever seen it. “And, oh, how wise. One day I asked him for some – I couldn’t help it. ‘Marcel,’ I said, ‘how can I be like you? Why you don’t give me some of your wisdom? You have so much already.’ An
d you know what he said?”

  I shook my head.

  “‘Mrs. Anna,’ he said, ‘we don’t receive wisdom – we must discover it for ourselves after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us from.’ Can you believe that? But that was Marcel…he was a hell of a guy.”

  “It sounds like it.”

  “All right, down you go,” she said, with a wave of her hand.

  “This is it?”

  “It is.”

  “No…no final words?” I asked.

  “It’s a rebirth not a funeral. Or maybe you want some big fancy introduction before you make your grand appearance back in the world again, huh? You want some big build up like Elvis Presley, is that it? And, oh my God, don’t even get me started on that one! My God! The tantrums, the scenes – it was unbearable. I wanted to kill myself!” She wiped her brow again and sighed. “But here – who would notice?”

  “No, um, if this is it, I’ll just…I’ll, you know…” I began to lower myself down into the washing machine, wondering if I should hold my breath now or wait until I was fully submerged, when Mrs. Anna suddenly cried out.

  “Stop! Wait!”

  “What is it?” I asked, greatly alarmed.

  “I forgot one thing,” she said, before taking my head in her hands and kissing me gently on my forehead. “There…a little kiss for the little boy that got lost in the woods.”

  “I shall miss you, Mrs. Anna.”

  “No you won’t. You’ll be too busy living to remember dying. Now go – leave our little undiscovered country.”

  “I will, I’ll remember you, no matter where my voyage takes me.”

  “Ah! That reminds me,” she cried. “One last piece of wisdom Marcel left me with – and I will leave you with.”

  “Yes?” I asked, eagerly.

  “‘Mrs. Anna,’ he said, ‘the voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.’” She placed her hand gently on my head and said simply, “Use them well.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  As I resumed lowering myself down into the water, Mrs. Anna began to lower the lid over my head. Just before it closed completely, I cried out to her. “Goodbye, Mrs. Anna!” I yelled, the whooshing and swirling of the water almost drowning me out.

  “Oh, this isn’t goodbye, my little spoon-fed comrade,” she said, with a wry smile. “Better we just say…au revoir.”

  She began laughing to herself as she closed the lid, making one last turn of the dial as she did so. Despite the noise of the machine and the gurgling of the water all around me, I could, at least for a little while longer, still make out sounds from the room beyond, specifically the sound of the front doorbell ringing.

  “All right, all right, I’m coming!” I heard Mrs. Anna yell, impatiently, followed by the sound of the doorbell again. “My God, what is it with you people?” she bellowed. “You want to live faster, die slower, and still you’re not happy. I swear you get worse by the century. Enough already!” I could just make out the sound of the doorbell ringing again, this time insistently, and then one final, exasperated roar from Mrs. Anna. “Oh shut up!”

  And then everything seemed to blend into a swirling, soothing oneness. As I became swept away by the warm, comforting waves and cascades around me, I could feel my conscious mind being gently erased, like little bubbles disappearing into the ether, until at last wiped clean, ready to start afresh as someone new.

  Of course, I’ll never know who it is that I came back to be. I could be anyone, I suppose. Anyone anywhere in the world. Or perhaps I’m not so very far away. Perhaps I’m someone you glanced at across the street on your way into work this morning. I could even be your next-door neighbour. Or perhaps…just maybe…I’m you.

  Make it count.

  ~~~

  By the same author:

  SCHISM

  A Psychological Thriller

  "A masterpiece...Gripping...Captivating...If you enjoy a good thriller book, this is it. Highly recommended." --Amazon Review

  "A very good psychological thriller. I'd recommend it!" --Amazon Review

  "Both repelling and addictive; like a car accident you can't look away from... What a great find!" --Amazon Review

  As a boy, Horatio Higgins was ignored by the other children, but that didn't stop him having lots of friends...friends only he could see and whom he'd regale with tales of his fantastical exploits. Eventually, though, his parents became concerned at the inordinate amount of time their son appeared to spend talking to himself and took him for treatment, which, in time, proved successful...almost. One friend remained. Unfortunately it was the spiteful one.

  Years later, living alone in his tiny London flat, Horatio's loneliness is mitigated only by his acid-tongued friend and the company of what he affectionately refers to as "my wife". After losing his job, however, his life begins a rapid downward spiral...that is, until he meets a sweet, impressionable young woman named Nore. As their relationship lurches unsteadily forward, Horatio finds himself struggling against a riptide of conflicting realities he's ill-equipped to cope with. Can Nore save him from himself or will she, too, be dragged into a world where the line between fantasy and reality becomes increasingly and perilously blurred?

  Weaving together dark humour with shocking, unsettling twists, Schism is sure to stay with you long after you've turned the last page.

  Available at:

  Amazon US: Schism

  Amazon UK: Schism

  STRANGE TALES of the

  CURIOUSLY UNCOMMON

  Strange Tales of the Curiously Uncommon is a collection of darkly humorous short stories, each with a cunning twist in the tail. When extraordinary events befall some of London's most ordinary of inhabitants, unexpected turns lead to some witty, strange, yet ultimately satisfying results.

  "Brilliantly witty stories in the tradition of Roald Dahl" -Amazon Review

  "A treasure Mr. Biss, one I'll certainly be keeping for a re-read" -Amazon Review

  "If you have a appreciation of dark humor with twists that leave you grinning in naughty pleasure, grab this one and enjoy" -Amazon Review

  "I enjoyed everything about it from the wonderfully appropriate illustrations to the delightful stories" -Amazon Review

  Available at:

  Amazon US: Strange Tales of the Curiously Uncommon

  Amazon UK: Strange Tales of the Curiously Uncommon

  THE IMPRESSIONISTS

  A collection of six poignant, sometimes heart-wrenching, sometimes heart-warming and frequently witty first person short stories. Each of these stories juxtapose the public face with the private, conflicted person behind it.

  "What I loved the most about these stories are the voices. All of them are very different. The author did a fantastic job of giving them distinct personalities. They have their own troubles and basically, what we are reading is their internal monologue. I loved how it flowed neatly and the stories are just so solid. Very, VERY well-written." --Reading Good Books Review

  "I like the way Andrew Biss, writing in the first person is able to express the feelings and emotions of an overweight woman, a young man, a serial killer and a middle-aged woman and to you cause you to empathise with them and to see them as real, individual people. This is a rare talent. I highly recommend this collection." --Amazon Review

  BIG GIRL:

  An overweight young woman named Peggy appraises her recently purchased self-help book, “The Bigger the Better.”

  THE REPLICA:

  An abused wife reflects on her past and deconstructs the emergence of the replica that now haunts her present.

  A SMALL ACT OF VANDALISM:

  Malcolm, a gentle, middle-aged soul with a troubled mind, keeps his mother's remains sealed in a small porcelain box. What he keeps hidden among his memories, however, isn't so easily contained.

  ONE NIGHT ONLY:

  Denny, a prisoner on death row in an Alabama State Penitentiary spends his final moments reviewing his career as a seria
l killer in an interview with himself.

  ORGAN FAILURE:

  A woman in the viewing room of a funeral home addresses the body in the coffin before her.

  WYWH:

  Eileen, a reclusive, middle-aged divorcee, still haunted by the loss of her son, discovers a new life in the virtual world.

  Available at:

  Amazon US: The Impressionists

  Amazon UK: The Impressionists

  ~~~

  Please visit Andrew at his website here.