I’ve been kidnapped by cannibals. They set me by the dining table. Is this a dream? I need to be snapped out of it. I’m no longer mentally stable. It would seem the wife is the cook. My, oh my she has a lot of cook books. Family of crooks. The wife looks like a rotten pig with worms in it’s eyes. Well i’m shook, that’s exactly what we’re eating. Oh, Christ, I can smell the food. It smells like. Hell, if it smelt like, human faeces with a strange stink-bomb of a animal species, And a goddamn heavy smoker. Think, think, think I need to get out of here, low on time. I need to choke her, stab him and run from the kids. Or I could just break that clock. Yeah, good idea. ... So it was a dream all along. “No we just knocked you out.” Well shite...

In a small apartment, nestled in the mangled streets of a skyscraper city, John Clark stares at the clock from his favorite chair. Apart from the clock’s dull ticking, John breathes in the silence. The time is 6:19, one minute to sunset. And in exactly 41 minutes, at 7pm, John will never have to check the time again. He always hated clocks and their unnecessary pressure for urgency. At 6:23 John rises from his chair and moves to the window. He opens the window to let the beautiful night inside. To his left, the sky is ripped open by a burst of color dispersed by the sinking sun. The air is warm and carries the comforting smell of cigarettes and a home cooked meal. To his right John squints at a bright, fiery tumbleweed bursting through the dimming sky, casting an eerie red tint on the world below. A few blocks away comes the faint sound of shouting and several cars in a honking war. The time is now 6:27 and in 33 minutes, at 7pm, the world will be destroyed by a raging fireball that is headed straight towards earth. John has seen death and doesn’t fear it. But he also wouldn’t invite it in for a cup of tea. He calmly accepts it, knowing there is nothing he can do to stop it. At 6:30, John’s stomach growls in anticipation. Anticipation, not for the end of the world, but for a final dinner. 30 minutes is all he’s got and it’s all he needs to enjoy his last meal. He opens the fridge door and scans the cold fluorescent shelves picking the ingredients he needs. At 6:35, as John stares into microwave’s yellow humming glow, he remembers his life. From above, hurried footsteps and the slamming of cupboards breaks his stream of thought...

At 6:30, Alexander Wilson is shaking, huddled under a blanket on a drooping couch when he feels his stomach start to moan. He had spent the day frantically getting things done- All the things on his extensive to do list, and now he’s exhausted. Alex was the type of person who couldn’t leave anything unfinished. So when his growling stomach reminds him of all the food he still has in his fridge and cupboards, he is jarred from his coma into a state of frenzy and panic. The news casters had said 7...it was 6:35. Without wasting time, Alex, now a wild animal, tears through the kitchen, grabbing food and stuffing his mouth. Bread, fruit, raw eggs. Leftover spaghetti, milk, frozen peas; A desperate binge before everything’s gone.

At 6:56, as Mr. Clark sits at the table with his dinner, he listens to the ruckus above him and imagines what his neighbor is doing with his final minutes. And as a brilliant avalanche of light and heat engulfs the world around him, John savors the final bites of a hotdog and an apple.

she’s always dreamt of waking up on a lazy sunday and making breakfast in her own kitchen, the sunlight streaming in through the windows and lighting up her life. maybe there’d be a cat, or a dog napping somewhere close by. maybe there’d be someone in her bed, still sleeping. that one, that last one hurt a little bit because she could see his face, his skin glowing gold with the sun. there’d be plants and she’d check on them, rub behind her pets ear, while she was waiting for coffee to cook. she’d put on some music and sing along quietly as she made breakfast. maybe it’d be pancakes, maybe it’d be eggs and toast. and then maybe she’d bring it to bed or maybe he’d join her in the kitchen. maybe he’d kiss her cheek and hug her and maybe her heart would beat slower, her eyes would close and she’d melt into the warmth of having all that.

or maybe she’d stumble through the apartment in the rainy morning, still half asleep as she put on the water to make some coffee, then bring it back to her bed and drink it by herself. maybe that would’ve been okay, but she’s done that before and no amount of blankets could chase away the cold. no amount of telling herself it’s okay to be alone could overshadow the pure loneliness of being touch starved. no amount of self love could replace the memory of waking up next to him, arms around her.

perhaps i should have waited for your arrival. but my god- the /smell/ that lingered in the air. i couldn’t help myself. and the taste- it was heavenly. it had the right amount out of spices with just a hint of lemon. i wish i would apologize but i cant because i’m not sorry. i wish i you would have never come because you ruined the perfect evening with your anger. how could you ruin something so perfect? and maybe i should have gone after you when you stormed out. but i didn’t. i instead stayed, and finished the remaining of your plate. and for /that/ i apologize. i will not apologize for eating though, because i don’t regret a single thing. because to me, it was the most absolutely perfect evening- i mean besides your negative attitude.