Out Of Time by Chris Morin

    The last of the dead autumn leaves were dropping on the lawn and he knew; he knew his life would soon be over and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. If the reports on the television were correct, he would soon be dead along with millions of others.
    He wasn't scared. No, there wasn't enough time to be scared. He wanted to spend his last minutes on Earth looking at the world he once knew: the back yard where he had spent hours mowing, pruning and killing any dandelion that dared grow in his space, the storage shed that he had spent so much time puttering around in but never really getting anything done, the picnic table that held the ghosts of countless meals from dozens of cookouts throughout the years and finally his favorite spot, the small pond at the end of the yard that was home to a family of ducks.
    Now he and the ducks would die in a fiery blast.
    How much time? He didn't know. He walked towards his home, an old colonial that had lived through many wars. Not this time though. There may be something left of the foundation, but probably not much. The more he thought about his home the more he grew sad. He loved living away from all of the hustle and bustle of the big cities. He loved the peacefulness and the serenity.
    He fought off the temptation to break down and cry.
    Dying didn't scared him. It was the thought of dying alone that made him tremble. His wife had passed away two years previous from natural causes. One morning he woke up. She didn't. He was married to her for eighteen years. But her memory cheered his heart. He would be with her again.
    He started to smile.
    But then his vision turned black.
    And he was out of time.