In celebration of Dr. Sketchy’s fifth anniversary on December 11, 2010, and in anticipation of the ensuing world’s end, writers are submitting apocalyptic prose. Today’s offering comes from Brice Stratford, a London-based disgraced dandy and rural landed gentry; a liar, fighter, actor, and writer. Mr. Stratford spends his days writing films nobody wants to make and stories nobody wants to read, then getting paid to hit people with swords; he fancies himself “Orson Welles meets Oliver Reed, by way of Gomez Addams.”      And so it came to pass.      The fifth sun has been swallowed by wolves, four horsemen are charging through a scorched sky, planes are dropping, meteors striking, zombies crawling, and the great God Yog-Sothoth has broken through to usher in the dawning of a dark, new age. Throw in the fact that the shower keeps spitting blood and you can’t sleep for the shrieking of lost souls at the window, and you’d be forgiven for a certain degree of malaise.      But all is not lost.      One last haven remains; a place to wait out the messiness with a glass or three, to bask in aesthetic delight, and indulge in your final creative flourish. When society fell so did the critics; the galleries are rubble and flames, and the uninspired have blown their brains out in despair. Only the decadent, the subhuman, and the insane have survived.      So! As the seventh seal is broken, and the Book of Revelation takes effect, make the most of a level playing field and revel in humanity’s last hurrah at Dr. Sketchy’s Anti-Art School, the most entertaining night out this side of the Whore of Babylon. If nothing else, at least it provides a distraction. If you’re in New York City, join us at the ends of the worlds on December 11, 2010. If you’re a writer who’d like to submit your irenic, eschatological or simply apocalyptic prose, email .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address). Submissions welcome until December 7, 2010.