When the birds began to drop from the sky, it was weird, even spooky, but I didn’t know this was the end of everything. They littered the lawn like drifts of autumn leaves. Fish washed up dead on the shore. And over it all, the punishing dome of stilled, sweltering heat. The forests caught and burned.

Life’s limits are very finely set, you see. At a wet-bulb temperature of 30.5 ° C, we start to die. Those of us with air conditioning lasted longer. Until the power failed.  

It’s been good.

.Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge set by Rochelle Wisoff Fields to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here