Supernova: a story in 60 seconds

The good die young; the young die old

Time’s touch is horribly inconsistent. Take a flower, for instance. It hastily sprouts and blossoms, only to slowly mature and wither before descending back into the dirt. Now compare this to a star, which shines steadily in the sky for eons until one day, out of nowhere, it erupts in a grand cataclysm of energy and light.

A human life, though, is not so simple. It can go either the way of the flower or the star, retreating quietly into eternity or concluding its time on Earth with one final bang. The women currently gathered in the basement of the Mossy Grove Nursing Home face this choice day after day, and every morning, they wake up and make the same fateful decision: They’re going out like stars.

“Did you see Terry’s grandson?” Agatha asked as she cracked open her second beer and began getting things ready. “Boy’s jawline’s sharp enough to give you a papercut.”

Edith didn’t look up; she was flicking through twenty-dollar bills and trying not to lose count. “Must’ve got his looks from the other side of the family,” she grunted.

Clara rolled her wheelchair over to the bar cart. She reached out a trembling hand and splashed some 18-year single malt into a heavy-bottomed tumbler, before slowly dribbling in soda water until the glass sat a quarter full. She twirled, sniffed, and sipped.

“Sweet as honey,” she murmured. “Renee, why did you bust out the good stuff? Your son getting divorced again?”

Renee was seated at the card table across the room and didn’t hear her name being called.

“Renee,” Agatha shouted. “Why are we drinking your expensive scotch?”

“Huh?” Renee asked, lifting her head.

Agatha repeated the question.

“Oh,” Renee mumbled. “Doctor said I might have Parkinson’s, so I figured now’s as good a time as ever.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sweetie,” someone said.

But Renee just smiled and laughed. “Oh, don’t worry about me; I only need a couple of brain cells to win money off you bitches. That reminds me,” she said, setting her cards on the table. “Agatha, is the arena ready to go? I’ve got a handful of my great aunt’s pearls burning a hole in my change purse.”

“Bring in the warriors,” Agatha answered as she positioned the final panel of vinyl-coated chicken wire into the shape of an octagon.

Upon hearing the announcement, the dozen or so women shuffled, hobbled, and wheeled themselves across the smooth concrete into a rough semicircle around the makeshift arena. A few minutes later, Edith, the heartiest of the bunch, waddled over with a medium-sized pet carrier. She set it in the center and added a few handfuls of lettuce to the floor.

“Okay,” Edith huffed. “Whose fighters are doing battle this afternoon?”

Anna, a pale woman with hollow cheeks and glittery red hair, shakily raised a hand. So did Beth.

Edith offered a solemn nod of acknowledgement and opened the carrier door.

The women watched intently as the two hefty turtles wandered steadily toward the lettuce. A knitting needle was taped to one side of each shell, while a paper target with a bullseye was attached to the other.

The women cheered and jeered as the turtles jousted above the salad greens. Finally, after a few near misses, one of the knitting needles punctured the target. A collective howl erupted from the basement, followed by a few handshakes and the exchange of cash.

Clara set down her scotch and tapped Beth gently on the shoulder. “Nice win tonight, darling. I didn’t think Lancelot would pull it out.”

But Beth didn’t answer. Her head slouched forward, and her eyes stared coldly at the floor. The poor woman had enjoyed her last breath—thankfully for her, it was a victorious one. We should all be so lucky…

***Sorry for going MIA, but I’m back. I look forward to reconnecting with everyone.***