pen. produce. publish.
for your entertainment
A powerful wizard released from his ancient prison possesses a young boy to seek his vampire bride.
Publisher: Dalton
Release: August 2008
Weekly Short Story
"Projector Screens" by Rob Queen (continued from the newsletter)
A terrible roar rocks the building, knocking me to the floor. The cell phone tumbles away from me, obliterating any explanation Harrison might have. I swear at the dead line, and before I can find his number, a filing cabinet collapses on Lydia. I rush to help her.
When I free her, a woman from Accounting tends to her. They clutch each other close, one sobbing into the other’s hair. Amid the ruckus, someone shouts that the 102nd floor has collapsed. That’s two floors under us.
A herd of people rush toward the stairs. Thin tendrils of smoke collect outside the elevators. The stairwells are no better. People hack for breath as they dart down toward the city.
The PA kicks in. “Everyone, please remain calm.” It is our boss, Ed Serving. For a moment, the pandemonium slows down. Ed steps out of his office wearing his game face.
“Head for the stairs,” Ed says. “If you don’t, then let me thank all of you for helping to make Dunn Serving Realty one of the most successful world realty companies in, well, the world. It has been my greatest honor to work alongside each and every one of you. Now, at the end of the world, I would like to open my bar to you.”
Ed’s eyes are misty and he raises a bottle of Chivas Regal to us. I think he’s gone crazy, but several colleagues join him in his office. “A toast to Armageddon,” someone says.
All around me, the lingering people huddle close, pressing their heads together to share sobs; leaning against desks, sipping their alcohol from paper triangle cups from the water cooler, saying nothing; someone asks me if I want to play dice. Carlos organizes his desk as if he’s headed home. Someone mutters prayers to Allah. In times of utter madness, many people fall on tradition and custom. I envy them as thoughts of escape flood my head.
A final earthquake hits as the next building over explodes in a rain of dust and debris. A hunk of molten metal bursts through the window and bowls over the man beside me. The heat from the red hot pylon sears my eyebrows as I try to make out who he is.
“Omigod! He’s dead!” a young woman shrieks. She rushes to join the crowd at the stairs. I can’t peel my eyes from the corpse. That was almost me.
A cry for help jerks me back to my crumbling reality. A manager wants to throw a desk through a window. I take a corner. We rock it once, twice, and send it crashing to its doom, thousands of feet below us. The manager salutes us and follows the desk down into the pillar of dust and flame that was our neighboring building.
Several more people follow suit. One even spreads a projector screen between his hands, to use like a hang glider or a parachute. It just might save his life. I scour the other board rooms but can’t find another. The last room is locked, so I throw a chair through the glass. No time for sensitivity. I flip the mechanical switch. The seconds seem hours as the screen lowers one inch at a time, and I try cajoling it faster. I’m sweating. This place could go any second now.
To confirm my suspicions, the building shudders. It’s too late for escape. I sink down into a chair and punch a number on my Blackberry. My gut lurches. The phone rings once. “Come on!” I cry. I don’t want this to end yet. The phone rings again. The floor tilts right, and I tumble out of the chair. This time I don’t lose the phone.
“Honey?” my mother asks.
“Apologize to Harrison for me,” I say. “I was cut off.” I confess to her my last words, as all around me; the North Tower crumbles from reality to legend.