The sky endlessly churns—a distant rumble. No sunlight. A tree-lined suburban street finely coated in a layer of undisturbed white dust. Poison clouds, clouds of spores. No wind.
On a wooden shelf in a damp root cellar, a mason jar that contains a dead cockroach, post-ecdysis.
A series of cavernous, empty spaces at the end of a winding road. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Walls covered with portraiture: families, children, hands and feet. Wood paneling. Molded ceilings. Various arrangements of tarnished silver. Significant water damage. Black mold. A staircase that leads nowhere.
Street signs stripped of paint—no names, no directions. Stones stacked in a rough circle atop the hollow stump of a dead tree. A fragment of a fingernail embedded in a cinderblock wall. The jawbone of a small animal. Mothballs. Motionless rivers of glue. No rain. An endless forest of barren trees, carpeted with the shed exoskeletons of countless cockroaches.
All that remains.
David Peak’s writing has appeared in Denver Quarterly, 3:AM Magazine, [PANK], Electric Literature, Flaunt and elsewhere. His book on horror, speculation and extinction, The Spectacle of the Void, was published by Schism Press in 2014.