By Damien McKeating
THE world was ending and Michael Hawkins had found the last working payphone.
His hand hovered over the numbers.
He was running out of time.
The dimensional veil had ripped asunder and the monsters were loose. The post box next to where he stood burst open as a writhing black-green tentacle rose up from the ground.
He dialled the numbers.
He had to tell her before it was too late.
He’d loved her for so long.
“Hi,” she answered.
“Judy,” he cried.
“I can’t answer the phone right now but…”
He hung up.
So much for last chances.
©Damien McKeating 2016