By Freda Hansburg
On Saturday, May 21st, the newspaper carried a small story. A self-proclaimed prophet had predicted the Apocalypse would begin today, the faithful transported to heaven.
Late that afternoon when she finished her chores and sat down with the paper, Rose Livingston didn’t bother with the news section. Alone on her farm in rural Pennsylvania, she turned instead to the crossword puzzle that had awaited her attention all day. With deft confidence, she worked through the grid, only to be stumped by the last clue across – a seven-letter word for “bliss.” She frowned. “Euphoria?” No, that had eight letters.
As she pondered the clue, a tingling sensation crept over Rose. She felt light, as though filled with helium. Then lighter still. Her cells hummed, an almost familiar melody. To her amazement, Rose began to float, rising through the air. She reached the ceiling and passed through it.
As Rose wafted up into the rosy evening sky, she watched the town recede into the distance – houses, the few midrise buildings, trees, the church steeple. All shrank into miniatures, toys, at last fading from her sight.
The answer came to her, the puzzle solved.
The next day an even shorter article in the Sunday paper claimed the apocalyptic prediction had been a false alarm. Among the billions who remained, some snickered, some scowled, a few sighed. They did not know what hour had come round.
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