The Middle of the End // Elena Ender
I can smell the tar bubbling up and oozing down the street as a sign of the end times. The cars get gobbled, and the drivers climb out of their windows to sit on top of their hot roofs until someone brings them a small bridge to get them to the sidewalk, a mound of pillows, or a plank of wood, perhaps. Our death is inevitable, but at least we can help our neighbor get back to their lawn where they step on frogs, fallen from the sky, croaking over and over. I can hear the cicadas scream in chorus with the frogs, buzzing a harmony that only a mother could make you feel guilty about.
It’s because you had premarital sex, she says over her morning coffee, doing the crossword and hearing the pitter-patter of blood drizzling on the aluminum siding of my childhood home. And it was gay, she bemoans. I moved back in at the beginning of the end, but the apocalypse hasn’t fully taken enough time out of my day to keep me a safe distance from Mom’s grumblings. She is retired.
I don’t think the world is ending because I had premarital gay sex.
You never know, she shakes her head. But it surely wasn’t me. Dad cleans up the messes that seep indoors, but knows his favorite lawn-maintenance tasks are a lost cause. If I am the reason for the apocalypse, I’d mostly feel guilty for that; he loves taking care of the hydrangea bushes.
I still work remotely, writing social media ads for an agency that represents some questionable corporations. I’m getting paid, but not paying rent, and also going out much less, obviously. So if the world sticks around for another two years, I would maybe be able to afford a down payment on a condo in the city. It’s unlikely, but it would be kind of nice.
None of my friends live in the area. It’s all just people I knew from high school who never left. It’s embarrassing seeing them again after so long, especially feeling like I failed for not hacking it in the city through all of this. It was just so on fire.
I try to keep up with my friends from the city, but not many of them are in places with cell service or general livability. Everyone without a plan was invited to join me, but no one wanted to share a bedroom. I mean, I get it: I snore, and I am bad about putting laundry away.
The days move slowly as the world waits for a merciful close. After the initial uproar, we became and remained relatively quiet and level. I stopped dreaming a few weeks ago; I just sleep in static and wake up to an unfriendly alarm.
During the hours between storms, a hot, orange dusk, I take our old dog Benny for a walk. He sniffs the curb clovers and pulls at his leash to catch up to the creatures that have fallen from the sky or unearthed from below. He never tries to bite, though, and he never even growls. He just wants to play.
Elena Ender spends her time writing silly little stories, scouring local dives for live music, and clowning around with her friends in Portland, OR. Her debut chapbook, Still Alive, I’m Afraid. is available now thanks to Bullshit Lit. You can find her online as: @elena_ender.