I found a black hole in my house.
I tied a rope to a table leg and abseiled down, thinking the rope would keep me safe.
But the rope became the black hole.
And black holes are too hard to grasp.
So my grasp became time itself.
And time slipped through my fingers…
When I emigrated to space, I was determined not to lose my angry Scottish accent.
But it didnae matter, because in space, naeb’dy kin hear ye screamin’.
I passed up the opportunity to become an astronaut. Chose office work instead.
It’s an honest living, not too demanding. Still, I often work late, tell my colleagues I have loads of emails to get through.
Really, I just sit in the dark on my computer, running my fingers over the space bar.
At the end of the black hole, a tavern awaits.
They brew planets there. Serve them by the pint.
That’s how we became extinct.
Somebody ordered a pint of Earth and downed it in one. Burped up 4.5 billion years of history. Pissed out the rest.
Didn’t even leave a tip.
Neil Clark is a writer from Edinburgh, The Universe and everywhere between and beyond. His work is published in Okay Donkey, The Molotov Cocktail, Five:2:One and other cool places. Find him at neilclarkwrites.wordpress.com or on Twitter, where he posts a new micro fiction most days @NeilRClark