SECOND PLACE
IT’S HEADING FOR EARTH AND SPOILER ALERT: WE DON’T STAND A CHANCE by Dean Koorey

Professor Michelle Russo burst through the double doors of the government compound, a tangled mess of sweaty bangs, charts, laptops and dangling cables.

“I’m here to see General Brewster of the Planetary Defense Office,” she announced to the front desk clerk, her jenga tower of items swaying precariously. “He’s expecting me.”

Russo, head astronomer at Murdoch Observatory, had been overseeing a routine scan of the night sky when she’d detected the rapidly approaching projectile. Now, fuelled by cold hard data and lukewarm coffee, she was here to brief the brass.

In the Situation Room, she spotted General Brewster immediately. A burly block of a man, he was as wide as he was tall. He occupied the far end of the table, flanked by an entourage of uniform-clad colleagues. Behind him, an enormous map of the world did its oscillating lines and digital clocks thing.

After quick introductions, it was down to business.

“Tell us what we’re dealing with,” Brewster said.

Russo took a moment to check her charts and distribute the folders. She hadn’t seen this much paperwork since her divorce. Take one, pass it on.

“Thank you General. At approximately oh-four-fifty this morning, my team detected a fast moving giant metaphor heading directly for Earth.”

A murmur broke out across the room, manila folders flopping open in unison.

Brewster eyed her amid the chaos.

“Did I hear correctly?” he asked. “Did you say a giant metaphor?”

“That’s right sir – we’ve never seen anything like it. Closest was the alliteration shower of ‘04 that famously flattened a frozen forest full of fifty-foot firs in Finland.”

Russo continued. “However this metaphor is different. Its hyperbolic trajectory alone makes it bigger than anything else by a factor of infinity plus one.”

The room fell silent. Finally, Brewster spoke.

“Tell us straight, professor. How many lives are we talking?”

Russo consulted her notes. “With this sized metaphor, we’re predicting a torrent of ubiquitous pandemonium, spreading akimbo utilising a meandering miasma of maladies to serendipitously steal humanity’s zeal, undeniably hastened and chastened by the certitude of our own requiem.”

The entourage exchanged glances. Russo sensed their uncertainty.

“I personally checked this data twice,” she reassured them.

Hands steepled, Brewster spun to take in the world map.

“And where is this giant metaphor expected to hit?” he asked.

“Based on its current course,” Russo began, “destinations are but rusty map pins of the soul, akin to a paradoxical fool’s errand in myriad emplacements amidst the loftiest latitudes of equanimity.”

“We have no contingency for that!” Brewster roared, fist firmly meeting table top. The room flinched.

“I’m recommending we initiate Code Purple,” he said at last.

“Professor, how long until impact?”

Russo punched some calculations into her laptop.

“Well, time is an ethereal gossamer thread, quintessentially measuring a plethora of perfumed petrichor memories effortlessly promulgating the ennui of a billion blazing Julys in the blink of an epoch’s existence.”

She looked up from the data. The room stared blankly back.

“Basically, we’re fucked,” she said.