A Short Story: The Prophecy of Ruth

Sometimes the Sky IS Falling...

Ruth squatted down and pulled at the bottom drawer.  The white paint had worn off the knobs, and the old wood felt smoother than paint, polished slippery by bare skin.  Oiled by the oil off so many fingers.  Ruth pulled and the wood barked.  She pulled and tumbled backward on the thin rug.

A knob had ripped free, showi…