By Fannie H. Gray

The end of the world is not the hellscape I imagined. Flowers bloom everywhere. Volunteer tomato plants erupt from between the cracks in the sidewalk, loaded with fruit—they look like jungle Christmas trees. The topiaries at the city park, the boxwoods once carved into submission, have outgrown their forms. Swollen teddy bears with mohawks flank the path to the Children's Garden. 

I don’t know what happened to all the people, and if I’m honest, I mostly don’t care. One night, pickled in gin, I passed out in my basement, and the next morning, I staggered into an unpopulated world.  Purses and hats lay in the gutters like seashells in the trash line on the shore. I’ve never been much of a people person; all the posturing and preening irritate me. I stayed in our little ass-backward town even after the school closed and the Piggly Wiggly went tits up and was happy when most of the townsfolk left. The Kwik-E Mart has more canned food than I could eat in years; the library doors are unlocked, and Bud’s Garden Shack is full of seeds and useful tools. I don’t spend too much time wondering why the power is still on, but I am damn glad it is. Occasionally, though, I do admit, I think it is a right bit strange to never hear a human voice. 

It's so damn quiet I can hear myself swallow but only at night. Daytime is a cacophony of birdsong. Were there always so many birds? Jays shriek like angry housewives, and mourning doves pitiably protest as the sun sets and again when it rises. The cardinals' incessant pips are like smoke detectors bleating for batteries. Yet, my lower octave is eschewed if I try to join the chorus. I stand next to a dogwood, riotous with blooms and try to serenade the robins. They wing off, affronted by my humanity. 

But birds be damned, I am going to sing, though I've never been musically inclined. In fact, Ms. Parchewski paid me a dollar to just mouth the words during our third-grade holiday recital. And it's hard to remember lyrics, so I do a lot of humming. Mom was a Beatle-maniac, so a few songs have come back to me. 

Today, I took myself to the playground. I had forgotten how much I like to swing. A grown person couldn't just commandeer a swing back when the world was peopled. Why should children have all the fun? Christ knows, we adults could use a lot more joy. So, there I was, sailing through the air, caterwauling Here Comes the Sun, and as the swing came to a stop, I spied a ginger tail spring up amongst the tall grass, like a beacon. A meow sweeter than any tune I’ve heard. Lonely hearts find each other. 

So here I am, sitting in a sandbox, a cerulean sky unsullied by either clouds or contrails, the only sound a rhythmic, heartwarming purr. 

I'm calling her Sunshine. 

About the Author

Fannie H. Gray writes fiction inspired by a southern American childhood and dark fairy tales. She is a 2022 Gotham Writers Josie Rubio Scholarship recipient and a 2024 Key West Writers Workshop participant with Jonathan Escoffery. Her first published piece, Last Damsel, was nominated for a Best of The Net. Her work Incendies received Honorable Mention in Cleaver Magazine’s 10th Anniversary Anthology Flash Contest and was nominated for Best Microfiction. All published work can be found at www.thefhgraymatter.com.