The Worst-Case Prophet
How a Boy Who Predicted Disasters Learned to Bet on Tomatoes
This week, I'm applying new skills learned from my creative writing class. While this is a work of fiction (and the story is longer than usual), the takeaways are very real.
I've been thinking about how we approach uncertainty, especially when good things happen. There's this weird mental gymnastics we do where we brace for impact even when we're soaring. Like our brains have a built-in disaster insurance policy that we never asked for but can't seem to get rid of.
So I wrote a story about a kid who's basically a professional worst-case scenario planner. Because sometimes fiction helps us see our patterns more clearly than any self-help article ever could. Plus, I needed an excuse to write about someone who makes me look optimistic by comparison.
Here's what happened when young Marcus met his match in the form of a grandfather who'd mastered the art of strategic optimism...
Marcus had a gift. Not the kind you'd want to unwrap on Christmas morning, but the kind that made his stomach twist into knots every time something good happened. He could predict the future with startling accuracy—at least, that's what he told himself. The problem was that his crystal ball only showed disasters.
"I just had the best year of my life," he announced to his mom over breakfast on the last day of summer vacation, "so next year is going to be the worst one ever."
His mom paused mid-coffee sip. "Why would you say that, honey?"
"Because that's how it works. Good things don't last. They're just setups for the bad stuff." He stabbed his scrambled eggs as they'd personally offended him.
The pattern had been established early. When Marcus won the spelling bee in third grade, he spent the entire celebration dinner convinced he'd fail the next test. When he made the travel soccer team, he immediately started cataloging all the ways it would go wrong. When his parents surprised him with a trip to Disney World, he worried the whole plane ride about getting food poisoning.
His prophecies were self-fulfilling in the most spectacular way. He'd walk into new situations so armored against disappointment that he'd practically guarantee it. Like a walking Murphy's Law with cleats and a backpack.
"I'm not going to meet anybody new at soccer practice," he muttered to himself as his mom dropped him off at the new field. "All my friends are on other teams and I'm alone by myself."
He sat on the bleachers, watching other kids warm up, building his case. See? They're all already friends. They probably planned this. They're probably talking about how they hope that weird new kid doesn't try to join their group.
Coach Martinez blew the whistle. "Alright, everyone pair up for passing drills!"
Marcus felt his stomach drop. This was it. The moment of social execution he'd been dreading. He'd be the leftover kid, the one the coach had to awkwardly assign to someone who'd roll their eyes and make it obvious they were doing charity work.
"Hey, you want to partner up?"
Marcus looked up to find a girl about his age with grass-stained knees and a genuine smile. Not the polite smile adults taught kids to use, but the real kind that made her eyes scrunch up.
"I'm Sophia," she said, already juggling the ball from foot to foot. "Fair warning: I'm pretty terrible at passing, so this should be entertainingly disastrous."
Marcus blinked. This wasn't in the script. Where was the rejection? The subtle exclusion? The awkward silence that would confirm his worst fears?
"I'm Marcus," he said, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. "I'm probably worse."
"Perfect. A disaster duo. We'll be legendary."
And somehow, they were. Not legendary in the way Marcus had feared—spectacularly, embarrassingly bad—but legendary in the way that matters when you're twelve and someone gets your humor. Sophia laughed when he made self-deprecating jokes. She didn't roll her eyes when he missed easy passes. She just said, "Good thing we're not playing for the World Cup yet," and kept going.
For forty-five minutes, Marcus forgot to predict catastrophe. He was too busy experiencing something dangerously close to fun.
But by the time his mom picked him up, the old patterns had reasserted themselves. This is too good to be true. She probably felt sorry for me. Next week she'll partner with someone else, and I'll be back to being the weird kid who talks to himself.
The worst-case prophecy machine ran at full capacity for the next three weeks. When his English teacher assigned a group project, Marcus pre-wrote his acceptance speech, anticipating that he would do all the work himself. When his mom suggested they visit Grandpa Joe and Grandma Ruth, he immediately started worrying about having to make small talk and being asked about school and friends he wasn't sure he actually had.
"They're going to ask me a million questions," he told his mom during the car ride to his grandparents' house. "And I won't know what to say, and it'll be awkward, and Grandpa will do that thing where he stares at me like he's trying to figure out what's wrong with me."
"Nothing's wrong with you, Marcus. And your grandpa adores you."
"He's probably just being polite."
His mom gave him a look in the rearview mirror that he'd learned to interpret as "we're going to talk about this later, but not now."
The visit started exactly as Marcus had predicted. Grandma Ruth fussed over how tall he'd gotten, Grandpa Joe asked about school and soccer, and Marcus gave monosyllabic answers that made everyone work too hard to keep the conversation going.
But then something happened that wasn't in his disaster screenplay.
Grandma Ruth started crying.
Not the gentle, happy tears that grandmothers cry when they're proud of you. Real crying. The kind that makes your chest hurt to watch.
"The doctors want to do surgery," she said to Marcus's mom, her voice shaking. "On my heart. They say it's routine, but..." She couldn't finish the sentence.
Marcus felt his stomach drop, but this time it wasn't about him. This was real fear. Adult fear. The kind that doesn't go away when you realize you're being ridiculous.
Grandpa Joe, who Marcus had always thought of as the kind of man who could fix anything with the right tool and enough determination, looked smaller somehow. Older. His hands were shaking as he reached for his coffee cup.
"When?" Marcus's mom asked.
"Next Tuesday," Grandma Ruth whispered.
The room fell silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock and the sound of Marcus's heartbeat in his ears. He wanted to say something, anything, but what do you say when real worst-case scenarios aren't just products of an overactive imagination?
Then Grandpa Joe did something that changed everything.
He stood up, walked over to Grandma Ruth's chair, and knelt down beside her. He took her hands in his—the same hands that had taught Marcus to tie his shoes and throw a curveball—and looked directly into her eyes.
"Now, don't you worry," he said, his voice steady and sure. "You're going to be as good as new after."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't a hope. It was a statement of fact delivered with the kind of quiet confidence that made Marcus sit up straighter.
"You think so?" Grandma Ruth asked.
"I know so," Grandpa Joe said. "Forty-seven years of marriage, and I've never been wrong about the important stuff. You're going to be fine. Better than fine. You're going to be telling the nurses how to do their jobs and complaining about the hospital food and driving everyone crazy asking when you can go home."
And then something magical happened. Grandma Ruth smiled. Not the polite smile that adults use to make kids feel better, but the real kind that reaches your eyes and changes your whole face.
"You're right," she said. "I am going to be fine."
Marcus watched his grandfather transform his grandmother's worst-case scenario into a best-case reality with nothing but words and absolute certainty. No medical degree. No inside information. Just the radical decision to believe in the best possible outcome.
"You know what else?" Grandpa Joe continued, warming to his theme. "When you get home, we're going to plant that garden you've been talking about. The one with the tomatoes and the herbs. And this summer, we're going to have the best tomatoes in the neighborhood."
"The best tomatoes in the county," Grandma Ruth corrected, and they both laughed.
Marcus felt something shift inside his chest. It was like watching someone perform magic, except the magic was real and available to anyone brave enough to use it.
The drive home was quiet. Marcus stared out the window, replaying the scene in his head. His grandfather hadn't minimized his grandmother's fears or told her she was being silly. He'd simply chosen to believe in a different ending.
"Mom," Marcus said finally, "do you think Grandma's going to be okay?"
"I think your grandfather is a very wise man," she said. "And I think believing in good outcomes is a lot more fun than expecting bad ones."
Marcus considered this. "But what if you're wrong? What if you believe good things will happen and they don't?"
"Then you'll have spent your time being happy instead of miserable," his mom said. "And if good things do happen, you'll have enjoyed them twice—once in the anticipation and once in the experience."
That night, Marcus lay in bed thinking about soccer practice. In exactly twelve hours, he'd be walking onto that field again. His usual script called for anxiety about whether Sophia would still want to be his partner, whether he'd embarrass himself, and whether the other kids would finally realize he didn't belong.
But what if he tried Grandpa Joe's approach? What if he decided, with absolute certainty, that practice would be fun? That Sophia would be happy to see him? That he might even make another friend?
The idea felt foreign and slightly terrifying. Like jumping off a diving board when you're not entirely sure there's water below.
But Marcus was tired of being the prophet of doom. He was tired of armoring himself against disappointment and missing out on everything good that tried to squeeze through the cracks.
So he made a decision.
Tomorrow's practice was going to be great.
"Hey, Marcus!" Sophia called out as he walked onto the field. "Perfect timing. I've been working on my passing, and I think I might have graduated from 'terrible' to 'moderately awful.'"
Marcus felt his usual anxiety spike, ready to remind him of all the ways this interaction could go wrong. But instead of listening, he did something radical.
He smiled.
"Good thing," he said, "because I've been practicing too. I might have reached 'slightly less embarrassing.'"
"Progress!" Sophia laughed. "Hey, do you want to meet Jake and Emma? They're new too, and we were thinking about starting a 'New Kids with Questionable Soccer Skills' club."
The old Marcus would have immediately started cataloging reasons why this was a bad idea. They were probably just being polite. He'd say something awkward. He'd disappoint them. They'd regret including him.
But the new Marcus—the one who'd learned the art of prophesying good things from a grandfather who'd bet everything on tomatoes and successful heart surgery—had a different response.
"That sounds perfect," he said.
And it was.
Jake turned out to be the kind of kid who made everyone feel funnier than they actually were. Emma had a contagious laugh and a competitive streak that made even passing drills feel like adventures. The four of them formed an instant, easy friendship built on shared inexperience and mutual encouragement.
When Marcus missed an easy goal during scrimmage, instead of the crushing embarrassment he'd expected, he found himself laughing along with his new friends. When Jake tripped over his own feet and face-planted in the grass, instead of secondhand mortification, Marcus felt the warm solidarity of being part of a group that didn't take itself too seriously.
"Same time next week?" Sophia asked as they packed up their gear.
"Absolutely," Marcus said, and meant it.
Walking to the car, Marcus realized he wasn't dreading next week's practice. He was looking forward to it. He was imagining good things happening. He was betting on best-case scenarios.
It felt like learning to fly.
Grandma Ruth's surgery was scheduled for Tuesday morning. Marcus had spent Monday night the old way—imagining everything that could go wrong, preparing himself for the worst possible news, building elaborate scenarios of loss and regret.
But Tuesday morning, he woke up and made a different choice.
He got dressed, ate breakfast, and announced to his mom, "Grandma's going to be fine. Better than fine. She's going to tell the nurses how to do their jobs and complain about the hospital food and drive everyone crazy asking when she can go home."
His mom looked at him with surprise and something that might have been pride. "You sound like your grandfather."
"I learned from the best," Marcus said.
And when they got the call that afternoon—surgery successful, patient recovering beautifully, already asking about when she could go home—Marcus felt the deep satisfaction of a prophecy fulfilled. The good kind.
Three months later, Marcus stood in his grandparents' backyard, helping to harvest the best tomatoes in the county. Grandma Ruth, who was indeed as good as new, directed operations from her lawn chair with the efficiency of a general and the enthusiasm of someone who'd bet on living and won.
"These are perfect," she said, examining a particularly large tomato. "Just like I knew they would be."
"How did you know?" Marcus asked, genuinely curious.
"Same way your grandfather knew I'd be fine after surgery," she said. "Sometimes you just decide to believe in the best possible outcome and then work to make it happen."
Marcus thought about this as he filled another basket with perfect tomatoes. He thought about soccer practice, where he now looked forward to seeing his friends instead of dreading social disaster. He thought about the group project in English class, where he'd volunteered to be a team leader instead of assuming he'd be stuck doing all the work. He thought about the school dance next month, which he was actually considering attending.
"Grandma," he said, "I think I'm getting the hang of this."
"Getting the hang of what, sweetheart?"
"Expecting good things to happen."
She smiled—the real kind that reaches your eyes and changes your whole face.
"Now you're learning," she said. "It's much more fun than the alternative."
As Marcus loaded the last of the tomatoes into the basket, he made a prediction about the future. Not the kind that twisted his stomach into knots, but the kind that made him want to wake up tomorrow and see what would happen.
Next year was going to be the best year of his life.
And for the first time in his life, he was probably right.
See you next week!
Loved this. Great story.