Excellent an astronaut witnesses Doomsday Witness to Doomsday by RodG      Sunday, Monday, Doomsday... Contest Winner

D-Day + 15 For the record, should human or alien ever read this, my official designation on ISS is, or was, LT. Commander Todd Selman, Communications XO.  Mine was the last voice from here in space any earthling ever heard.  That was more than fifteen days, 225 orbits ago. An unedited copy of that recording and a video of the holocaust has been placed in the Station's vault.  Commander Kelley continues to maintain the official Station's log.  How long he will do so, I do not know. In this journal I will use a pen because these are my personal thoughts, feelings, and impressions, not official transcript. *          *          * After D-Day Todd Selman could only weep or scream.  Jags that lasted for hours until he was spent.  Later the cycle was repeated until his rage and tears ran out. Then he stared for hours at Earth as the Station orbited the dying planet.  Groggy, as if coming out of anesthesia, he finger-drew invisible images of Earth on his console. And remembered those last words and actions that dreadful day. "Alpha Station, do you read me?" "Morning, NASA.  That you, Barry?" "Yes, Todd.  Where's Commander Kelley?" "Sleeping . . . uh . . . shall I get him?" "Yes . . . no!  We don't have time.  Listen.  In thirty-three seconds you're going to be directly over the Sinai Peninsula.  Something may happen.  I need you to tell me exactly what you see." "What am I looking for--?" "Shush!  Look . . . now!" Selman stared out the huge window at Earth 249 miles below.  At any one moment he could see almost half a continent.  At this precise second, he saw most of northeast Africa and the Middle East and . . . a mushrooming cloud rising slowly upwards as if someone was squirting white frosting on a cake. "Oh, God!" "Is it . . . happening?" shrieked the voice of the man Selman has spoken to each of the past 465 days.  Barry had always been calm, always in control, even the day Selman almost floated off into space while trying to mend the arch-strut antennae and listen to directions simultaneously. For several seconds as the Station drifted eastward, Selman could not respond. Then he glimpsed a second spurting cloud farther north. "Another," he groaned.  "Who--who pushed the first button, Barry?" Another lengthy silence. "Washington's just been bombed.  Confirmed.  You'll see it in . . . uh . . . 49 minutes, Todd.  By then we--we won't exist here in Houston." "Don't say that!  Someone's gotta have good sense and stop this--" "Not today, Todd, and tomorrow . . . will be too late I suspect." *          *          * Barry had been correct. As the Station passed over the globe the next few hours, Todd Selman witnessed Doomsday. Fifteen days later he flipped a page of his journal and wrote this: "Gumbo." That's all I could think of as I watched the destruction of my planet.  Mom loved to cook Cajun-style gumbo in a large blue ceramic pot.  Into two or three cups of water she'd dump rice, beans, shrimp, and sausage and then turn the cooking over to me. "Watch that pot.  When it comes to a boil, stir for a minute, then turn down the heat to simmer, and put on a lid." Often after stirring, I'd watch the contents thicken, bubble up, and burst.  Craters would appear then vanish only when the heat diminished. That first day, Europe, Asia, and North America boiled and bubbled like that gumbo.  Small craters appeared and only increased in number over time. On day two the "heat" diminished and those continents "simmered" as radiation clouds spread east and west, north and south.  Like gumbo, the clouds thickened as the climate cooled.  And like Mom's blue pot, the seas seemed invulnerable to heat. But ISS is floating in space and communication with Earth has ended. Ignorance is NOT bliss! My five crewmates and I know only that we are now orphans.  We've wept and roared, but seldom talk.  We barely look at one another because of guilt:  Don't we share that human nature that destroyed a planet? Commander Kelley estimates our supplies will last a year. Did anyone survive?  We do not know.  We wait . . . we hope . . . we pray someone can/will contact us soon. But if not . . .?   Writing Prompt Write a flash fiction story up to 700 words that involves a doomsday scenario. Anything goes, but the end of the world, or its perception, must be a driving force in your story. Sunday, Monday, Doomsday... Contest Winner Author Notes picture of the International Space Station courtesy of Google images. word count: 700 exactly. Apple Works

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