Our Star, The Sun, Will Die a Quiet Death

Everybody on Earth decided to throw one last party. It would be a major rager, enough drugs and sex and dancing to last until the radical emptiness of eternity. People really joined together on this one: angry white boys laid down their guns and even the Dalai Lama stepped off that mountain to be a part of the fun. The pope had an air of I told you so, but it was mixed with such an astonishing level of drunkenness, his mouth ringed scarlet from communion wine, biblical words slurred and stumbled over, that he was forgiven. Museums threw open their doors and people poured in, eager to pet the stuffed lions, eager to pretend that bones still mattered. In Antarctica the penguins were already dressed for it but they acted celebratory in other ways too. They got on top of glaciers and rode them alone, the way down. Forest fires that had been burning for decades added extra orange to the flames to help with the festiveness. People hugged and had sex and looked sexy and sad. Pigs-in-a-blanket were eaten, chicken wings were eaten, tuna fish sandwiches were eaten. Thin gold chains hung around necks and arms were crossed against the onslaught of hot air.



Kara McMullen is a writer and graduate of the 2017 IPRC Certificate Program. She lives in Portland, Oregon, with two dogs, a cat, and another person. Her writing has also appeared in StorychordOhio Edit and The Harpoon Review, and is forthcoming in Slush Pile Magazine.


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