Unholy Trinity: The Beginning of the End of the World by Dana Vickerson
Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.
One: Dark Shapes Inside the Clouds
Lightning flashed, and Christine peered into the gloom. The sky was a deep, menacing gray, with overtones of sickly green. The cloud mass took on an undefined haze, save a few dark undulating masses. Christine thought of the ocean and huge moving creatures just below the surface.
A high pitch noise ripped through her head, and she looked around in panic. In every car, people jumped and pressed hands to ears.
Chaos. People ran through the darkness in all directions. More screams cascaded off the cars, and the distinct sound of crunching metal and breaking glass echoed through the night.
Two: Too Many People for the Party
“No!” Elijah screamed. “Stay back!” He pushed his body against the dumpster and threw out his hands, signaling to the approaching group.
The woman — their obvious leader, straight backed and loud when the rest looked hunched and exhausted — inched forward, her arms out in the universal we won’t hurt you gesture.
Elijah looked to the green gray sky, looking for signs of agitation. No matter her intentions, the woman and her group were a danger.
They moved closer, and Elijah looked back to the dumpster, to those he loved huddled inside.
The sky roiled, and the pods began to fall.
Three: Suck It Up and Keep Walking
Dane moved slowly through the overgrown brush, wishing for a car, a bike, anything from the world before. His oversized boots thumped on the uneven ground, and he thought how much easier this would be if he could walk on pavement.
The pods had destroyed so much in the early days, and whatever freaky shit had leaked out when the huge things exploded made quick work of buildings, infrastructure, and every last convenience Dane had known.
Suck it up, man. You’re alive.
He pulled down his bandana and kept walking, the toppled concrete overpass barely visible through the huge vines.
- About the Author
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Originally from New Orleans, Shalini Bethala grew up with a love for the hauntingly beautiful stories, ideas and folklore that were enmeshed with the city. She also developed a deep love for words and a well-told story. Anytime those two can marry, she’s there for it. She loves stories that lure, that haunt, that pull at heartstrings or that wrap one up in fear, anxious to know what’s going to happen next.
Shalini is a screenwriter, poet and essayist, and her work explores themes of intersectionality, belonging and the experiences of immigrant and first generation people. She is also an entertainment and media attorney. When she’s not working or volunteering, she can be found at the gym, out in nature, or in whatever greenery Brooklyn has to offer. If she’s nowhere to be found in NYC, then she’s likely back in her hometown, soaking up the warmth, enjoying the quiet and keeping an ear open for any dark secrets the swamp has to offer.
You can follow her on LinkedIn, Twitter, or Instagram or follow her poetry curation @ShaliniLovesPoetry.