by Trevor Record
The world came to an end overnight.
Rivers stopped running, high force winds abated, ice melted, and tropical vacation spots became lukewarm. The heart of the world had ceased beating.
But it wasn’t the end of life, or even of humanity; everything just stopped. In the morning, those who bothered waking decided that there was no need to go to work. There was no news coverage of the end because there was no news: All of the news anchors and camera operators failed to show up.
Some technicians momentarily worried, in a half-hearted manner, that without maintenance the nuclear weapons would explode. They soon came to the conclusion that some one else would deal with it, and shuffled lazily back into bed. It turned out that formerly unstable atoms had become too lethargic to be bothered with splitting or decaying.
People no longer played card games or basketball, they only thought about the days when they used to. Dust gathered, but not cobwebs: The spiders had taken to sleeping in and did not care for catching flies or building web. There was no more hunger, there was no more sex, there was no more killing. Dirty plates sat by kitchen sinks, untouched and unused. War became like a distant nightmare, and love faded away with the dying hum of electricity.
The world did not end in blood or fire or drowning. It became very tired, and settled down to slumber forever.