The entire world waited to see what would happen at the stroke of midnight. Fireworks were expected, but perhaps of a different kind.

London, England. December 31, 1999.

The end of a year, a decade.

The end of a century, a millennium.

The end of time?

Tomorrow, the world will be besieged by the millennium bug, that ancient beast that surfaces every one thousand years.

Mankind cowers, for it has been told by prophets of old that come tomorrow this bug will appear and strike at the heart of our existence.

For, in the pursuit of advancement we will be annihilated by our own creatures.

I hear the voice of Macbeth saying, "That we but teach bloody instructions, which, being taught, return to plague the inventor. This even-handed justice commands the ingredients of our poisoned chalice to our own lips."

So, here we are, in the middle of London Bridge.

It's 10 minutes to midnight.

My heart races as I run along the River Thames.

I must find that vantage point.

None can be found.

The countdown starts.

The key rattles in Satan's cell door.

His face is blood red and

vengeance is written all over his horned forehead.

He's ready to tell his side of the story.

The arrow at the tip of his tail

is pointing at Miss Witch who

broke Mr Mac's right jawbone

when, in true biblical fashion, he turned the other

cheek one Sabbath day when she accosted him.

His jawbone went 'pop! pap! pop!'

'Pop! pap! pop!'

'Zing! zang! zing!'

'Spak-spok-spuk!'

'Crik! crak! crakat!'

It's midnight and the blitz in London is on.

The skies are illuminated and are transformed into one huge celestial kaleidoscope.

Nobody is seeking shelter in the tubes. There are no gas masks.

There are shouts of joy; no weeping and wailing.

It's finally here.

Everyone is caught up in the rapture, rapturous fireworks, which echo in Nostrodamus' decomposing bones.

Armageddon is in progress.

The air is punctuated with explosions of apocalyptic proportions.

The sky is now blood red,

as red as the water in the pan into which my mother put me after the explosion, still reverberating in my brain.

My mind is a sea of hitherto forgotten pain.

The wires are still in my legs.

The pyrotechnic orchestra

plays rhythms of light and sound.

Louis Armstrong smiles in his grave. He sings, 'What a Wonderful World!'

It's paradise on Earth and any moment now we will be in the New Jerusalem,

walking on streets of gold and lying beside the lion and the lamb.

In the distance are the exciting sounds of reunion.

Satan and Miss Witch are throwing a party. Mr Mac's jawbone still aches.

Then, with one climactic burst

of musical euphoria and dazzling lights, the celestial bliss suddenly dissipates.

Oh what a foretaste of glory divine!

It's the year 2000,

the beginning of time, artificial time ...

oxydmoron@gmail.com