When Pigs Fly

by Phil Temples


The old man said to the woman, “That’s it, I guess.”

“What are you talking about?” she replied.

“You know: das Ende. L’estremità. La fin des temps. The end.”

As they spoke, the noonday sky had darkened considerably. In the east, red streaks were readily visible. It was an eerie manifestation; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, nor was there an eclipse of the sun or other astronomical anomaly predicted.

“I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for this,” she said. There was an air of self-assurance in her statement, but the woman did not feel entirely confident that some portentous and ominous event wasn’t in fact brewing at that moment.

They watched the sky for a few more minutes. Not another soul was in sight. She wondered if everyone in the village was sequestered away in the large cathedral across the street.

“The Good Book talks about this day. It describes it in great detail,” the old man remarked.

“If it’s true — if this really is the end of the world — why aren’t you inside praying with everyone else?” she asked.

“I’ve always maintained a private relationship with my creator,” he said.

At that moment, they were both startled by a painfully loud, trumpeting noise.

“For the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed!” yelled the old man above the din.

The woman felt small pebbles raining down upon them. Looking up, she could see the gargoyles atop the corners of the cathedral breaking free of their precipices. The one that landed nearest to her had a porcine-like appearance. It was rotund, with a small, sinister snout and cloven hoofs. She could see that it wore a startled, frightened expression. It flapped its stony wings and took to an awkward flight.

When pigs fly, thought the woman.


Copyright © 2012 by Phil Temples

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