The Prophet

By Daren Schuettpelz


The Prophet opens the window to his Juliet balcony one late spring morning; the kind of morning that hints at summer and those hot, lazy, languid days. The Prophet gently waters the two pots on the balcony, interrupting the wispy flight of a butterfly. Violet delphiniums stand proud and eager in one pot, while in the other, a rose-tinted angel’s trumpet dangles ominously over the rim of the pot. The sigh from a cello being practiced lingers in the air. Lawn mowers chug to life as homeowners attempt to sculpt their gardens. Three children, one dressed almost entirely in yellow, kick a ball in the street as two lovers sneak kisses in the hidden confines of their car.

“No, not today,” thinks the Prophet, “This is not the day the world should end.” As he gazes at the azure sky he whispers, almost audibly, “Tomorrow. I’ll tell them tomorrow.



Daren Schuettpelz lives in Germany, where he teaches high school English to military-connected students. His work is forthcoming in Beyond Words and The Evening Street Review.