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waiting

The lonely whoosis lay on the protruding bit of the mountain and waited for the apocalypse. Will it be long, it contemplated wearily. Oh, God!, not too long.

It had already been waiting for quite a while, and hope was starting to fade away. The nagging feeling that it would rust before the event grew stronger by the minute. But to counter that fear was the pleasing knowledge that its plastic bits would survive.

Thank God for plastic. Non-biodegradeable plastic, that is. The sort that lasts forever.

It wouldn’t be the same without the iron bits, though. The iron bits were of course the important parts. Without the iron bits it was nothing. Existentialism crept in.

Thank God it had been sunny. Hardly any rain. Rain was bad. Frightening. Terrifying. Real bad. The whoosis shuddered at the mere thought of rain. Rain meant death. Or rather, a slow death for the important bits.

What would be left? The whoosis did not want to be the mere handle of a whoosis. That would feel like being music without sounds. A bus without passengers. A religion without a God.

It wished it had someone to talk to. The saucepan it had dated a few years back had said it would come. That was one saucepan you could talk to. About life. Death. God. There had also been some entertaining discussions on aliens.

It felt a deep pang of loneliness. This was definitely not what it had expected. It had expected suspense. Excitement. Action. Heated debates on whether it would be God’s wrath, or just aliens mocking about. Anything but this. This was not the sort of thing you did alone.

The first drop hit it. A deep, excruciatingly painful feeling of utter emptiness came over the whoosis. It felt as if there were a black hole within it, pulling it inwards. It expected to implode any moment.

A tear formed, but the rain washed it away.

Slowly, it began rolling. As if in slow motion, it inched towards the edge. It was anything but easy. The wet moss felt like barbed wire. The raindrops were like gushes of acid, on its soft plastic skin. It reached the edge, and peeped over it, into the darkness. The pain within was torturous.

With a pained effort it pushed over the edge and for a moment it felt exhiliratingly free.

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