2015: What it May Bring

would go down with fever. A year where she would not lose a dime to misfortune. A year where laughter would be a plaster on her face. A year of perfect memories.

As the Pastor rambled on about what God was set to do in the coming year, Madam Philomena placed a hand on her heart and bowed her head to the ground. Her eyes were closed. Her mind was focused on heaven. She felt rings of coldness course through her body which made her shiver. Her lips moved in silent prayer. A new year was unravelling, like the layer of an onion. The clock was ticking, moving neither with haste nor sloth.

Then the pastor stopped speaking, and keyboard sounds took his place, followed by the voices of a sonorous choir. Madam Philomena spread her hands to the sky, her voice rising, blending with that of the choir and other members of the congregation. It was time to give thanks. To show some gratitude. For life and its strife. For all things beautiful and awkward. For the small things. And for the rarer, big things.

Tears spilled from her eyes. She was lucky to be alive, Madam Philomena knew. Many had died. Many were in the hospital, oscillating between life and ultimate darkness. Some were locked up in prison yards, staring through iron-windows, longing for the clouds of freedom. She was grateful.

Then the Pastor's voice came up again, and before long, he started the countdown.

Five minutes to go. More prophecies, prayers, and praising. Three minutes to go. One minute to go. Thirty seconds. Ten. Three. One. Happy –

But Madam Philomena never completed it. A rush of violent heat swept her up. She didn't remember hitting the floor. Because by the time gravity took effect, her body parts were in pieces, her memory obliterated, her life a burnt-out candle. Just like the others.