The world ends soundlessly and mid-confession.
First, there is only darkness. Because sight fails, scents strip my room into view. Charred electricity and ingrained grease. Then melting plastic and flammable plaster. Then Victoria’s Secret body mist and snot-kissed posters.
“I think I’m in love with you,” I finish my declaration into the phone, a testimony that will never reach him.
“Damn, they were right!” Dad shouts from the living room.
I manoeuvre my way towards his voice and find him. Mum is right behind me. She strokes my cheek, and I smell chicken burger even though she’s a vegetarian.
“The power’s out,” Dad says.
“And my call got cut off,” I say.
“Look, northern lights,” Mum says from the window.
We stay silent for a long time, but the panic we have tried muster along seven billion other scared people after Friday’s news broadcast doesn’t arrive. Coronal mass ejection, they said. If it hits Earth, it will destroy everything – power grids, telecommunications, radio frequencies, all man-made ease. And now it has.
We breathe in the stillness, the bridge between two isolated minutes, now-gone twin flames, suddenly detached. Then, we awake.
We take a half-baked focaccia out of the oven which won’t work for years. Dad opens a bottle of vodka. Mom burns Palo Santo. My brother mixes his protein powder into water with a whisk. The scent of melting shrimp and souring milk follow me to bed. Humankind’s new night presses against us without compromise.
*
Twenty-four hours later, my hand is holding a pen, and its words take on a new shape now that they won’t be seen anymore. I love you, I love you, I love you, I think I’m writing over and over until the moist paper tells me to stop. My naïve longing and the water bill from a past life smell the same. I love you? Thirty euros and fifteen cents. Did I love you? Reference number 1168. Did I love? The bill expires on the thirteenth of July. Maybe.
On the third night, I decide I don’t love him and stain my air with glue. I bury my stamps in a folder. They will be the ricochet of a false dream because even though all we have left are letters, I don’t want to spend the collective pause loving from afar.
On the fifth night, Mum heats water on a gas stove with meadowsweet and yarrow, but I still notice she has started smoking again. The stench of sperm cloaks Dad. Cannabis invades my nose from my brother’s room. Secrets are harder to hide in darkness. I stick a fork into a power socket and smile when I only meet metal against metal.
On the tenth night, our bananas rot, and we open jars of tomato-and-basil sauce for dinner. Dad returns home with the ghost of our last litre of gasoline on his skin. Mum rubs lavender oil on our wrists. She hasn’t brushed her teeth in days. My brother has cut himself with a razor. I can’t tell where he is bleeding from, but the smell of iron is stark as stone. I wonder when memory turns into history and who will rewrite it once it has been wiped.
Finally, the sea buries the pollution. We are cosmic grief, but nature re-learns its anatomy and reminds us of its might with moss and cloudberries and predator teeth and prey eyes and birch bark glistening in the morning dew. Our ancestors came from the oceans, nothing but salt organs and seaweed skin and ever-existence, but somewhere along our story we became smoke and batteries and disinfectant and polyester and microplastic. So maybe this is for the best. Maybe the coming years will skin us anew, into something better. And if not, our world will die and die and die until it no longer remembers how to be reborn. That’s what I hope for.
Image: Flaming meteor flying through a black sky from pixabay.com
literally stories 
Grim, poignant little tale of the end of the world, as told from the perspective of a (teenaged woman?). Sensory reflections (“Mum…hasn’t brushed her teeth in days…” and “Dad…with the ghost of our last liter of gasoline on his skin”) are stark and effective expressed. Very well written; thank you, Veera, for sharing.
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Veera
Although a sudden return to the pre industrial revolution world might be wanted by some, I imagine that we are too conditioned by technology to go back to homemade sanitary products and striking up conversation with the family. Of course it wouldn’t last long, with all that nuclear stuff no longer controlled by anything higher tech than candles and sand bags.
Well done!
Leila
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A scary but all too plausible scenario lifted by some excellent wordplay – excellent!
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LS Towers receive a huge number of ‘end of it all’ stories. Many of them are admirable but not so many have that extra little ‘something’ that makes them stand out. It’s hard to say what it is but yes, the excellent writing is part of it and I think the very human element, the perception, the passion altogether make this a ‘stand out’ story. Thank you – Diane
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Fine writing, thank you! Nothing else I’ve ever read has made me more conscious of what I’m missing with a very poor sense of smell!
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Mick – I wondered about smelling sperm and iron.
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I agree. A great standout story. A fresh, engrossing view on a familiar tale. Strong sensory details make it seem real and different for me.
Well done.
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Excellent writing of the senses – this had the lot: sight, smell, touch, taste, and sound, and this is what makes this piece so well done, as you would imagine, as the possible end of the world comes to us, all our senses would probably heighten and exaggerate their final moments. Very smart, evocative, and superbly written.
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Don’t know if the story’s teen girl’s thoughts are reasonable, but they are interesting. I would have checked to see if the car would run. Like the pandemic, there would probably be a run on groceries. I’d worry about food.
Personal note. I should have sent my end of the world story “Seer” first, now I’ll have to wait.
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Veera
Solar storm, AIDS, nuclear catastrophe, the plague, global overheating. The rapture! Whatever the cause, the universe won’t miss us and neither will we.
But what will become of our little stories?
Loved it. — Gerry
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Hi Veera,
Stark and bleak.
Loved it!!!!!
Hugh
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Veera,
My favorite part of this story was the ending, as it seems to explore the notions of a character who’s welcoming the end of the modern world as we know it, or maybe even the end of the human race itself. Henry Miller once wrote, “Nobody knows how many times the lights have gone out,” referring to past civilizations that have been wiped out due to natural disasters, disease, war, resource depletion, and other unforeseen consequences. Your story grapples with an ultimate condition most humans don’t want to see and refuse to look at in a realistic way, even when the evidence is staring them in the face. The highly-condensed, poetic prose of your last paragraph gives a fresh spin on an eternal concern. Thanks for such concise, image-filled, thought-provoking fiction.
Dale
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