• Anthony Parker

New Star in the Sky

A lit match streaked toward Earth. For nearly two years, an alphabet soup of acronym named government agencies were aware of its trajectory. Math was verified by billboard size equations at NASA, the Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL), Cal Tech, MIT, Stanford, and a handful of Ivy League schools. Attacking the meteor with black book military deep space anti-aircraft weapons failed. Joint efforts with Chinese and Russian space programs to stop the meteor didn't have any luck, either. Speaking from behind the Oval Office desk, the President revealed the meteor's existence in a solemn broadcast that concluded with a carefully chosen scripture verse. The President urged the entire world to unite in peace and harmony. She practically told six billion people to finish up strong. Earth was put on a week's notice.


Sergio took hearing about the end of the world well. "Damn, this sucks," he nearly laughed, lighting up a joint. "I really would've preferred an earthquake," Sergio said, blowing smoke toward the open window. He handed the joint to his roommate Leo and leaned forward on the couch. Sergio stared at the President's life-sized lips on the big screen, focused on each pixel outlining the apocalypse. They got quiet and just listened for a minute before either spoke again.

"Earthquakes just happen, unexpectedly," Leo sighed. "Like, boom, shaking, L.A. sinks into the ocean, it's over. This is way different. This is fucked, man."

"Yeah, man, this is so much worse than an earthquake," Sergio agreed.

"Having a warning like this means we get time to think about how meaningless this has all been—was—is—whatever. This lets us have dread. That's fucked. I hate dread."

"Guess all the religious nuts are getting what they always wanted," Leo observed. "God's bowling ball is rolling this way—"

"—And it's a strike," Sergio said flatly.

"It's what they always dreamed of," Leo said venting emerald smoke rings. "People have always wanted the world to end in their lifetime. There's literally no better way to make us feel special."

"Goodnight and God bless us all," the President signed off before releasing control of the airwaves. The network news logo replaced the President's seal on the screen, dissolving to reveal a distraught looking news anchor who straightened a stack of sky blue paper leafs and coughed. He faced the camera and couldn't speak.

"What are we gonna do?" Sergio asked.

At that moment, Leo's phone vibrated on the coffee table. He handed the joint back to Sergio, picked up the phone and took it toward his room. "Yeah, I heard," Leo said closing the door behind him. Sergio returned his attention back to the television, sucking on the joint and waiting for anyone in the doomed planet to call.


Shelly was celebrating her favorite West Hollywood bar's drag night with her roommate, who went by the name Mary Hamburger when daily made up in wig and heels. Televisions strategically placed around the bar were all ironically turned to ESPN. When the President appeared at the Oval Office desk, hissing got everyone quiet.

Someone in control of the soundtrack turned off the Rhianna song grinding on every taut body in the room.

"Our joint effort with the governments of China and Russia to destroy the meteor currently on course to strike the Earth has unfortunately failed," the President shared, trying not to sound defeated. "The meteor," she went on, "is set to strike the West Coast of the United States in one week's time. The damage will be catastrophic."

Anything the President said after was swallowed by the reaction of nearly a hundred drag queens, their female friends, men who bought both drinks, and night-time tourists from the Valley who came down to gawk. Mary Hamburger reached over the scuffed mahogany bar and grabbed a genie shaped purple bottle. "The end of the world requires a fucking drink," she said into Shelly's ear. Mary Hamburger poured each a half glass.

"God, I don't want to die at the same time as all these assholes," Shelly said, raising her voice to be heard over the commotion. "And I'm not going to. I have a gun. I'm going to go back to the apartment and blow my brains out. Fuck this."

"Don't talk like that," Mary Hamburger replied before taking a shot and slamming the empty glass on the bar. "And why do you have a gun? Where did—you know what? Nevermind," Mary Hamburger relented, putting up her hands. "Fuck this. Someone here is sucking my dick to-night," Mary Hamburger announced.

"Lady, everybody here should suck your dick tonight," Shelly smiled.


Shelly went outside to call her mother. She lit a joint and scrolled through numbers while blowing smoke at her cell phone's face. Gunshots popped far off and cars jamming Santa Monica Blvd. bleated honks. Shelly sighed and rolled her eyes at the noise.

"Mom, did you hear?" Shelly shifted back and forth on her feet while nursing on the joint. A trio of drunken men synced into skin-tight black latex drag entering the club yelled Christmas wishes into Shelly's phone. "No one. Just some people on the sidewalk who probably don't know what's happening. Or maybe they do."


Leo emerged from his bedroom with two packed suitcases and drove to his mom's house in Riverside. He hugged Sergio goodbye with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. With the apartment to himself forever, Sergio took a bath with the door open and the TV loud enough to still hear it with the water running. Sergio soaked for two hours, listening to planetary scientists and astrophysicists describe how painless the extinction process would be. Each time the bathwater evaporated shallow enough to expose Sergio's hairless knees; he'd start up the tap again.


Mary Hamburger pulled her key out of the apartment lock and called out, "Why do you have a gun?" over the sound of the television news. In the kitchen, they hugged hello and Mary Hamburger kicked platform heels off while employing a tarantula sized hand on Shelly's shoulder for support.

"Mom gave it to me when I moved up here,” Shelly answered through a mouthful of ice cream.

"Did she think you were moving to Detroit? Jesus, you moved to Glendale. And you're white."

"And you're the girl home at midnight. Guess no dick sucking tonight," Shelly said, changing the subject.

"That's none of your business," Mary Hamburger said, opening the refrigerator door.

"Whore," Shelly murmured, spooning more rocky road ice cream straight from the carton to her mouth.

Mary Hamburger tugged the last two slices of pizza apart and bit into last night's extra cheese. "Are you afraid?" she asked, chewing.

"Of what? The end of the world? Dying?"

Mary Hamburger nodded.

"No, I don't think so," Shelly answered. She leaned against the refrigerator and spooned more ice cream into her mouth. "I think I'm kinda glad. Like relieved. Fuck, that's not healthy, right?"

"It's probably the most healthy reaction."

"It's still early. What do you want to do tonight?” Shelly asked.


They went up to their apartment building's roof. Purple midnight was inked above. They tried to pick out which of the dozen sparks flickering in the sky strong enough to break though the light pollution Los Angeles glowed was the star coming to kill them. When they went to sleep, they slept in the same bed for the first time since they were children.


Looting started almost immediately. The National Guard barricaded the city’s Westside, from Wilshire Country Club to the beach, containing the anarchy until the Army and Marines arrived. Helicopters wheeled above Los Angeles, broadcasting a parade of tanks tailgating down Pico Blvd. Police in riot gear took careful steps behind them like fish traveling with whales for safety. Around midnight, Sergio fell asleep watching news coverage of people emptying stores and firing guns into the air with his arm around a pint of Neapolitan ice cream. They spent his entire Sunday switching his attention between news on the flat screen TV and Internet porn, not bothering at all to put on pants.

Sergio went to work Monday morning. The apocalypse didn't make L.A. traffic any better. Sergio maneuvered around cars abandoned on the freeway picked cleaner than chicken bones down to just their skeleton frames before getting torched. At the office, scattered cubicles were filled by all the people who kept their ears plugged with headphones from 9 to 5. Sergio's boss strode into office just before noon, loudly clapping his hands to get everyone's attention for an impromptu staff meeting. The boss put out a cigarette on the recently installed gun metal grey carpet and told a semi-circle of office misfits to go home and do something with the rest of their short lives. He liberally peppered his words with the question, "Why are you people even here?"


"What do you wanna do today?" Shelly asked before really waking up.

"Drugs. Mainly drugs," Mary Hamburger answered. She was sitting up in bed rolling a joint, her shoulders taking up half the headboard, loosening her negligee's spaghetti straps.

"I feel like we should go see Mom today," Shelly yawned.

"Nope. Not happening," Mary Hamburger smiled.

"Why? It's in the end of the world," Shelly turned onto her side to say.

"That's exactly why."


"The damage will be catastrophic," Shelly paused for dramatic effect before saying, "to my liver," turning the bottle of over in her hand to read the back label. "Yeah, I'm taking this one, too," she said over her shoulder. "Merry Christmas to me," Shelly murmured. She ran a finger along where the overlapping ends of the wine label were glued atop each other like the spine of a book she decided not to open. She placed the bottle in a suitcase next to the others she'd already chosen.

"Wow. I just realized something: everyone is dead. Like really dead. No one has a future. We're at a moment of time, right now, like, right fucking now, where you can speak about every person who has ever lived in past-tense. That's amazing. You can't say, 'Well, Stacy has a bright future, she's a clever girl.' Or, 'Brad is an asshole. I hope he matures and grows into an upstanding young man,'" Shelly said, using her bass voice to act out her lines. "There is no future. The person who bottled this is dead. The grape farmer is dead. The grape picker is dead. The guys who worked at the winery are dead. The guy who bottled this is dead. The guy that shipped it is dead. The guy that paid way too much to buy an old ass bottle of wine is dead. But, he's been gone for a while, so you know," Shelly shrugged. "You're dead. My

sister, if you care, is dead."

"Yes, yes, and you're dead," Shelly's mother finished the thought's progression. "So, this is your big plan: drink all Dads’ wine?"

"Please. If Dad were still alive, he'd be on the floor by now, drunk off his ass."

"Stop it, Shelly."


"You know, this meteor is a blessing, really. We're all going to walk with the Lord at once: you, me, your brother, everyone. We get to see your Dad. Together. How wonderful is that? It really is a very Merry Christmas this year. It's a Christmas miracle."

"Mom. Please," Shelly groaned.

"Sometimes, I wonder where I went wrong with you kids. I really, really wish you would come to the church with me to celebrate," her mom sighed.

"Mom. Please."

"Was I a good parent?"

"Seriously? You're asking me this now?"

"Yes, Shelly, I am."

"You raised two kids by yourself after dad died. You never hit us; you never dated an asshole that abused us. Mary is the best person who ever lived, and the worst thing I've done since finding out the world going to end is raid a liquor cabinet in Costa Mesa. Sounds like a success to me."


"Doctor, where exactly is the meteor going to hit?" the news anchor asked stabbing his cigarette into a mound of ash built in the tray at his side. Half dozen yellowed filters he'd smoked over the past couple hours stuck out of the ash like porcupine quills.

"Original estimates were about a hundred miles off the coast of northern California," the Cal Tech astrophysicist answered. "We anticipated the meteor to splash down in the ocean west of San Francisco, but—"

"That's not what you're thinking now?"

"No," the astrophysicist said. "No, uh, the revised expectation is that, um, unfortunately, the meteor will strike land."

"Where?" the news anchor asked.

"Um, the central valley of California," the astrophysicist answered.

"The anticipated epicenter is Modesto, maybe a little west of there."

"What does this mean?"

"What do you mean?" the astrophysicist asked, furrowing his face.

"For us: L.A. What does it mean for people in Los Angeles?"

"Well, let me put it this way," the astrophysicist started. He balled his left hand into a fist and held it above his head. "Imagine this is the meteor," he said, bringing his fist slowly down toward his face. "Once the meteor enters our atmosphere, we'll all be momentarily enveloped, bathed even, in blinding white light. There'll be a bright, bright flash—imagine your eyeball up against ah, uh, a camera flash when it goes off," the astrophysicist explained, opening his fist a few inches from his nose to mimic a cosmically destructive shine. He put his right hand up to shield his face and said, "After the flash, the meteor, its tail—everything—will be completely visible for a few seconds before impact. It'll be amazing looking; a really, really big ball of light streaking, burning across the sky," the astrophysicist snorted from the scientific excitement of the event. "Even if the meteor breaks up, the biggest chunk will strike central California. So, to answer your question: if you're in L.A., or anywhere on the West Coast, really, and outside the house when it enters Earth atmosphere, visually, the meteor will look like it's coming directly for you."

"Jesus Christ, this is awful," the news anchor said lighting a fresh cigarette. "Of course, most of us in L.A. probably anticipated whatever cataclysmic event that would threaten to kill us all would be an earthquake, like in a disaster movie. We're all expecting 'The Big One,' or you know, the San Andreas—"

"Oh, there'll be earthquakes," the astrophysicist laughed reflexively.

"The impact responsible for wiping out the dinosaurs was caused by a meteor a little over a hundred miles in diameter. This meteor is estimated to be anywhere from six to eight, maybe nine hundred miles in diameter," the astrophysicist spread his arms wide to illustrate the meteor's width. "The meteor could possibly be almost half the size of the moon. The size of this thing is just amazing. Impact with an object this proportion should trigger a series of devastating, massive earthquakes, on both sides of the Pacific. These will, of course, cause tsunamis, volcanic reactions—you name it. We're talking bad in, uh, biblical proportions."

"Fuck," the news anchor murmured. "This is just awful. Really awful."

"Yeah," the astrophysicist agreed.

Sergio groaned sitting up on the couch. He picked his phone up off

the cluttered coffee table and checked to see if anyone had texted or emailed. Sergio put the phone down and changed the channel, flipping through variations of the same scene: news desk, anchor(s), scientific expert, large bold font chyron tattooed at the bottom of the screen constantly reminding viewers the planet was in its last days. Other networks broadcast images of rioting, bonfire oil fields, the candle-lit galaxy of bodies congregating at the foot of the Jesus statue in Rio, a raging impromptu Mardi Gras. Finally, Sergio landed on a live feed of a smiling Dalai Lama clasping his hands over thousands of freshly shaved heads bowed in Beijing's Forbidden City. Each skull resembled a glowing light bulb.