POMODORO

25 minutes. That’s all there was. One pomodoro’s worth of time.

Until the end of the world.

He glanced at the timer counting down and wanted to scream. The only thing that stopped him was the self-awareness that if he started screaming he wouldn’t be able to stop.

There was a whole world’s worth of people out there that didn’t know they were about to die. He envied them their ignorance.

No last goodbyes, but no last regrets either. Just going about their everyday lives with no awareness that the end was most definitely nigh.

24:35. 24:34. 24:33. 24:32.

He forced himself to look away. There was nothing useful about counting down the minutes and seconds. It would only add to the heavy sense of doom bearing down on him.

There were so many other things he could do like…

He scratched his head. His mind was a screaming miasma of different urges and desires. It was enough to choke him into immobility.

Finally he cursed and got out a notebook and pen. He began trying to plan out what he could do with his last 20 minutes.

Things that wouldn’t be worthless and a waste of his last little bit of time.

He glanced at the timer. Winced away.

22:45. 22:44.

He didn’t have anyone to call. His parents had died from COVID and his brother lived on the opposite side of the planet. Guy had met his wife online and moved away when he was 28 years old. They hadn’t seen each other in close to 6 years.

Guy was the kind of stickler for bedtimes that refused to answer the phone if it was past 9 o’clock at night. He was likely already in his pajamas cuddling with his pregnant wife.

There was no reason to call him, upset him, let him know what was to come.

It was better to let him enjoy this little bit of peace. It was a last bit of kindness that he could afford to give a brother he had never been particularly close to.

He thought about calling his friends, but decided against it.

How was he supposed to explain that the world was about to end? They would think he was delusional! Their last few minutes would be spent wondering if he was about to off himself or something.

It was better to let them continue on in their blissful ignorance.

20:29. 20:28.

There were 20 minutes left. He’d wasted 5 minutes mentally flailing and doing nothing.

He tapped his pen against the paper of the notebook. He’d made a checklist of things he could do, but nothing really called out to him as being something to spend his last minutes doing.

He didn’t even know why he’d added “Vacuum the carpet.”

Finally he shrugged and got up to head into the bathroom. One last orgasm to send off all life on Earth. Why not.

14:12. 14:11. 14.10.

He glared at the timer. It kept counting down. Even though it was digital, some part of him thought he could hear it working–click, click, click.

There wasn’t even time enough to order his favorite food from his favorite restaurant. Not that he felt particularly hungry.

There was a good chance that if he ate something now, he would throw it back up.

And how terrible would that be? To spend his last moments vomiting in the same toilet he’d just ejaculated into?

It would be some kind of metaphor. What kind of metaphor he didn’t know, but it would be something. Like life and death and defecation all being tied together, one unable to exist without the other or something heavily philosophical like that.

“God, I’m facetious,” he said out loud and laughed. It was heavy and joyful. Then suddenly it was tears. And he was crying, and it was the kind of crying that led to his nose leaking over his lips and down his chin to drip all over the front of his shirt in a disgusting stream.

But he couldn’t stop.

He was crying so hard he could barely breathe. He was hitching and gasping and his whole body was shuddering with the overwhelming realization that “I’m going to die!”

5:06. 5:05.

Once the waterworks started, they were hard to stop. His chest was still hitching and hiccuping, but he’d finally stopped crying. He took off his shirt and used it to mop his wet face.

“Ugh, I’m gross,” he said, rubbing the shirt under his nose to get rid of the last bit of mucus.

His upper lip felt sore and his eyes were uncomfortable. He hadn’t cried that hard since his parents died.

It was the kind of uncontrollable crying that didn’t really make anything feel better and maybe made things feel worse. Because it was accompanied by a sense of helplessness, of loss, of realizing that there had never been any sense of control in the first place.

Time was ticking down and there was nothing he could do to stop it. There was no one he could call. No one that he could wrap his arms around and bury himself into as the world came apart around them.

He was the only one that knew the world was about to end. And it was the loneliest of realizations.

Because everyone else got to keep thinking that there was always going to be tomorrow. All the things they didn’t get done today… All the things they wanted to do but weren’t able to do right now… They thought that tomorrow was waiting there for them, a sunset and a sunrise away.

1:21. 1:20.

Should I pray? he thought. Will my soul leave my body and journey to some other, new kind of existence?

He’d never been religious. His parents had been raised in soft-Christianity, which had resulted in them settling into quiet atheism. They’d never been the sort to speak bad about religion, but they’d never said anything good about it either.

He didn’t even know who he was supposed to direct his prayers to.

There were a lot of Christians, sure, but there were a lot of other religions out there too. How was he supposed to know which ones were real? Especially when the clock was ticking down and there was only… 45 seconds left?

Geez, he thought. Why does it feel as though time is going by too fast?

He began to pray without aiming his words toward anyone. He just gave his apologies. Told his parents and grandparents that he loved them. Hoped that if there was an afterlife it wasn’t going to be horrible.

0:09. 0:08. 0:07.

He looked away. There were only a few seconds left. Why spend them counting down like there was about to be a rocket launch?

He tried to think of what he had loved. What he had desired. What he would miss.

His mind was completely blank other than the looming awareness of what was about to happen.

He couldn’t help laughing at his own ridiculousness.

He’d only had 25 minutes to experience the whole rest of his life… and he’d wasted that bit of time counting down the seconds.

“I could have watched the final episode of my show,” he said to himself, chuckling. “I would have been able to know how things turned out between…”

=END=

BOXING DAY

When he was young he’d thought boxing Day was a day when people went boxing. Like Rocky but for regular people.

Now as an adult he knew better. And even though he still wasn’t religious, he appreciated the concept behind Boxing Day.

It was a day of charity and giving. Of wrapping presents for the poor and donating to good causes.

All year long he’d set aside a little money from each paycheck and bonus. And by the time December rolled around he had close to $6000.

He’d grown up poor. He knew what it was like to not have a warm enough coat or socks without holes in the toes and heels. He remembered going to bed hungry and waking up to go to school without breakfast the next morning.

He remembered the desperation that had driven his child self to steal from the desk of the kid next to him. That kid had always boasted of the toys and candy his parents bought him. His clothes had always been clean and new and the shoes on his feet were always the most popular brands.

There had been a sense of shame about stealing, but the grinding hunger in his belly had been unignorable. Immediately after school he’d run to the grocery store and bought a prepared bagel sandwich and a bottle of chocolate milk.

He still remembered the taste of that chocolate milk. Creamy and sweet. He had sipped and gulped then licked the rim of the empty bottle to get the last few drops.

He hated that poverty had turned him into a thief, but he didn’t regret it.

He’d been a child. And he’d been so hungry his stomach felt like it was eating itself.

No one had helped him so he’d helped himself. Even now he didn’t know what else he could have done. He’d grown up in a time when there were no programs for the poor and there were propaganda messages implanted in shows so blatantly that even now “There’s no such thing as a free lunch” was part of the pop culture of the eighties and nineties.

It had been a relief when people had started feeding the children. Free school lunches for every child. Extra nutrition programs for children and pregnant people. Toys for kids. School supplies and new clothes for those in need. Gloves, hats, and scarves at wintertime and new swimsuits in the spring and summer.

It had finally felt as if the world was becoming a better place. He’d looked around, and while he’d envied the new generation of kids, he’d felt glad they wouldn’t have to suffer the way he had.

Then people became bitter. Sarcasm and “dark” humor was popularized. Kindness became something to be mocked.

Boomers were angry about the “free lunches” millennials were getting. Gen-X was angry about the “pussification” of millennials and wallowed in “we had to live hard, why shouldn’t they?” jealousy. And millennials swallowed the bitterness pill and wondered why Gen-Z needed anything at all.

And programs began to break down. Greedy politicians that pretended at religion began voting against social welfare programs. “We’re not a socialist country! Why should there be social welfare? Back in our great-grandparents’ time, women would squat in the backrooms of factories, squeeze out a baby, and go back to finish their shifts! This new generation is too soft. It’s time to stop coddling and start forcing them to stand on their own feet! If you can’t afford children… then keep your legs closed!”

He had listened to the anti-humanity rhetoric and felt nothing but disgust. It still puzzled him that so many embraced nihilism as a viable lifestyle choice.

Some part of him blamed single shooter games and “one man army” action movies. People absorbed that brainless entertainment by the queue-full, then it was a big surprise when they started buying into the propaganda.

Family first, and self before family. If a disaster happens, do anything you want to survive and overcome, even if it means causing the deaths and misery of those around you. Let nothing stand in your way… You are the most important person ever born and whatever you do is acceptable even if it’s morally reprehensible and a crime in every known corner of the world.

He figured that kids raised on that kind of single-minded selfishness were doomed to lack empathy. He could only hope that after a time they would learn to care for those around them. Especially those kids that had always had everything and never tasted of want or sipped from the cup of authority sanctioned misery.

There was nothing he could do for any of them. And they likely wouldn’t want to listen to him anyway. He was just a nobody with a bit of time on his hands.

Instead he took his nearly $6000 and went shopping. Coats, sweaters, pants, underwear, socks, plush toys, baby formula, anything and everything that he could think of someone desperately needing.

He loaded up his car to take things for those in need. And the last thing he put in the trunk was two cases of single-serving chocolate milk bottles.

As he began to drive, he couldn’t help wishing that he’d bought the chocolate milk in square cartons instead. It was Boxing Day after all.

=END=

A LITTLE BIG PROBLEM

The turkey was too big. Stace moved it around on the counter and for a moment a sense of helplessness nearly overwhelmed her.

Her oven had been broken for months. She’d been making due with a toaster oven and a microwave that had a “conventional oven” function. This turkey was too big for either.

When she ordered the turkey from the grocery store, she’d assumed it was a small turkey based on the price. She’d imagined something the size of a football maybe, compact and easy to handle.

This was a full-sized turkey. It was heavy and frozen and took up a good portion of the small kitchen counter.

After staring at it for a long while, she shoved it into the refrigerator for future-her to handle. Then she went into the living room to watch the rest of the Chinese drama she’d started earlier. It wasn’t very good but the female lead was pretty and she wanted to know how things were going to turn out. (There was an awkward “will they, won’t they” between the female lead and the two male leads.)

Thoughts of the turkey now taking up most of the fridge hovered in Stace’s mind. She firmly pushed them away.

Future-her would figure things out.

. *. *. *.

It took days for the turkey to defrost. By the time she poked it and felt some give, she’d come up with a plan of attack.

When her parents and brother showed up she would have a turkey dinner ready to eat. No signs that she’d struggled to sleep with thoughts of turkey on her mind.

She spent Christmas morning preparing the turkey.

First she cut a garbage bag open and covered the counter. Then she got out several big knives and a large serrated knife. She didn’t have a wide range of cutting tools in her arsenal, but she hoped her few big knives were sharp enough.

She arranged the square Pyrex dish that fit in the microwave next to the garbage bag. After thinking, she also readied the toaster oven pan by lining it with tinfoil. She lay a glass cutting board on top of the garbage bag.

Then she got the turkey out of the fridge and pulled on a pair of disposable gloves.

She stood there for a long while, unmoving. Once she opened the turkey, that was it. There would be no turning back.

The turkey juices would be released and she would have to deal with the intimidating situation before her. There would be no going back once she breached the plastic.

Stace drew in a deep breath, then used the serrated knife to slice the plastic. She cut at the top of the turkey and peeled the plastic down. The pooling fluids were all at the bottom, and she was careful when lifting the turkey up and pulling the plastic free.

She lay the turkey on the cutting board and bundled the discarded plastic together, careful not to let any of the blood escape. She was glad the garbage can had a foot pedal and she could easily throw away the plastic.

Then she faced the large raw turkey. There were dimples here and there on the smooth skin and the red dot of the doneness button.

She pulled the bag of giblets and organ meat out of the cavity and set them to one side of the cutting board. Then she used a little effort and pulled the red button out of the turkey. The inner stem was white plastic and sharpened like a golf tee.

She tossed the turkey neck into a saucepan before taking up a slender knife and beginning to cut.

She struggled through removing the drumsticks and wings. It wasn’t as easy as she’d imagined it would be, and at one point a bone popped apart and juices splattered across the front of her shirt. It made her shudder in disgust but she couldn’t stop cutting.

She had two aprons but both were dirty. She felt that she should have washed at least one. Who would have thought that a turkey could be so messy?

She put the drumsticks and wings in the Pyrex pan. She would season and bake them in the microwave.

She cut off the breasts and lay them on the toaster oven pan. Then she messily removed other slices to lay on the pan.

Stace cocked her head, gauging the size of the carcass. It was much smaller than when she’d started, but still big with all the bones.

She glanced at the empty stock pot waiting on the stove. It was tall but narrow, more of a fashion accessory than the tool of an experienced chef. She’d bought it on sale and had never used it for cooking. It mostly stored unopened bags of sugar, flour, and rice. Which were now stacked on the bread machine that took up too much counter space in her small kitchen.

She tried to visually measure the size of the turkey carcass and the stock pot. It looked like it would be a tight fit. There was still a lot of meat on the bones, but she didn’t have any other pans ready to hold the raw meat.

Finally she decided “Fuck it!” and sawed at the bones, hoping to split the rib cage in half.

It didn’t work. Her knife wasn’t sharp enough and she became scared that she would accidentally stab herself if she didn’t stop.

Stace picked up the carcass and carried it to the stove. With a bit of effort she was able to force it into the stock pot. On one side there was a lot of empty space and the other side was full, but the bones refused to bend in any useful way. She pushed the bones all the way down to the bottom of the pot and told herself it was good enough.

Then she realized that she’d dripped turkey juice on the floor. And stepped in it.

Cursing to herself, she went back to the counter and gathered up the knives and cutting board and put them in the sink. Then she carefully bundled the garbage bag and put it in the trash can before pulling off the dirty gloves and dropping them in.

Then she washed her hands and got out bleach wipes to first wipe the bottom of her slipper and then the floor. Then she used more wipes to disinfect the counter and anywhere else that could’ve been contaminated by her messy turkey handling.

After washing her hands again, she set about cooking three kinds of turkey. Baked, broiled, and souped.

And she promised herself that unless she somehow managed to move into a place with a real kitchen–or got a working oven–she would never buy a full-sized turkey again.

It wasn’t just a lot of effort. It was gross. Especially the spatters on the front of her shirt.

. *. *. *.

By the time her parents and brother showed up at noon, Stace’s smile was back to bright and cheery. She’d showered and changed into a particularly ugly Christmas sweater and she’d exchanged the broiled turkey in the toaster oven for a small pan of green bean casserole. The dinner rolls were baking in the microwave. The only turkey still cooking was the soup simmering in the stock pot, to which she’d added some chopped yellow onions and carrot peels for flavor.

She accepted the hugs and kisses from her family, and took the large plate of sugar cookies to the coffee table in the living room. They’d be perfect to snack on while watching their annual movie marathon.

Her heart was light as she cued up the first movie: the director’s cut of “Alien.”

They sat down and watched the first part of the movie, and after the crew had their terrible meal, they moved to the dining room to enjoy their own Christmas dinner. Stace thanked her brother when he complimented the pattern of 8-bit xenomorph eggs decorating her red and green knit sweater.

She turned and lifted her hair to show him the back with the black alien queen on it. His clear envy made her laugh in delight.

The family talked and ate while Ripley battled aliens in the background. Then they went in the living room to watch the second and third movies. Halfway through the fourth movie they ate turkey noodle soup with crackers.

And it was a good Christmas. Because they were together. And nobody mentioned the mauled appearance of the broiled turkey or that the drumsticks and wings had obviously been cooked separately from the bird.

Everything had come together in the end. They were well-fed and well-entertained and she was no longer haunted by thoughts of a waiting turkey.

She didn’t let herself think of all the dishes waiting for her in the sink and on the counter. That was future-her’s problem.

=END=