It’s the end of the world and I know it. Not because the broken AM/FM clock radio packed away with my old Behavioral Psych textbooks started blaring REM at the stroke of midnight but because my Great Aunt Sylvia, who thinks her black-and-white television set is a Samsung Galaxy Tab S2, texted me to say so. She heard the news firsthand from her two most reliable neighbors, Mrs. Halpern from 7A and Mr. Gewirtz from 13B, both of whom she ran into this morning in the mailroom of her pre-war, rent-controlled Jackson Heights apartment building. Because I’m Sylvie’s favorite niece, as well as her only surviving relative, she wanted to let me know immediately about humanity’s demise. P.S. Make sure you have on clean underwear. P. P. S: Pack a snack. P.P.P.S. Clean socks never hurt. Since I would never disrespect my dear aunt, I throw in a load of laundry and cut a Honeycrisp apple into eight even pieces. At the start of the spin cycle, I turn on the local news. It’s true. A woman in a blueberry blazer confirms what Great Aunt Sylvia and her loyal neighbors already know. We again have reached the end. I bite into the whole apple sitting on the counter next to the cut up one. Somehow I am close to fine.
Fiction - ISSUE #30