Re-visiting an older micro-fiction piece.
D a y o f O r i g i n
What began as an oddity, morphed into reality. Fueled by media frenzy, the phenomenon grew exponentially. Within days, revelations of oblivion amassed.
And this time, the world was listening.
My name is Richard Elston. And everyone I know is dead.
March, three years past it began. Six thousand people across North America died within a twenty-four hour period, reasons unexplained. Not so unusual, until you factor in one peculiar anomaly. All six thousand of them died on their birthday.
It got better.
The following day, over half a million people across three continents expired, on their day of origin.
Medical intervention proved futile. The dying would not be deterred.
Mass chaos ensued. Governments did little. While theorists theorized, the death rate magnified.
By the seventh day, obliteration hit overdrive. Fifteen million people perished, despite their birthday…
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Self-deprecation is a personal trait I hold in high regard.
Despite society’s infatuation with self-assured confidence peddlers, self-deprecation—in metered doses, emits an aura of genuineness. It becomes a calling card of modesty, denoting an individual grounded in reality, unobtrusive and approachable. Self-deprecators, like insatiable introverts, prefer the solitude of shadow, avoiding the spotlight, until the stars align and the time is right. Then step back, and watch the magic unravel.
We’re all familiar with the phrase ‘kicking the bucket’, a euphemism, presumably derived during an era where staging one’s own demise was accomplished by standing on a bucket, securing a noose, and kicking away. Goodbye cruel world.