The Last Thanksgiving
The air tastes of char and ash.
Before them, the world ends in fissures—
dry earth splitting like old skin,
skeletal trees reaching for nothing.
Sarah stirs the pot. Flame-licked shadows
dance across her face.
You really think we can pull this off?
We don’t even have a turkey.
Matthew laughs, hollow as the space between stars.
It’s not about the turkey, Sarah.
It’s about remembering what it meant to be together.
Two planks balanced on crates—
a table built for the end of everything.
A chipped plate. A rusted fork.
One pumpkin, shriveled and mottled,
still burning orange against the gray.
It’s not perfect, Sarah whispers.
But it’s ours.
Her hands tremble as she arranges their nothing.
I remember Grandma’s stuffing,
Matthew says, voice thick.
She always said love was the secret ingredient.
Something crosses Sarah’s face—
grandmother’s laugh, her arms, the warmth of rooms
that once held feast and family.
Love won’t save us now, she replies,
eyes bright with what won’t fall.
The sun bleeds out along the horizon,
shadows stretching like fingers
reaching for something lost.
They gather beneath a sky that flickers wrong—
green and purple pulsing, sick and alien.
Let’s at least give thanks for what we have.
Sarah nods. Reluctant. Small smile breaking through.
Okay. I’ll start.
She breathes.
Thank you for this moment.
For being here… together.
Silence stretches between them,
woven from shared suffering and old love.
Their father looks up, eyes wet in dying light.
I’m thankful for you both.
Even if this world has turned against us…
we still have each other.
Laughter minges with tears.
They weave what was into what is—
a bond stitched by defiance,
by the stubborn refusal to let go.
Then—the ground shudders.
A low rumble, wrong and heavy,
rising from somewhere past the dark.
Not thunder. Something worse.
Did you hear that?
Matthew’s eyes cut toward the void beyond their fire.
What if it’s—?
Fear coils around their throats like ice.
Sarah swallows hard, looks to her father.
His brow furrows, but his voice holds:
We can’t let fear take this from us.
We have to hold onto our traditions—no matter what.
They raise their glasses—
murky water, no wine, no abundance.
A toast to what remains.
And in the distance, the shadows lean closer,
hungry and patient,
while this family of three
eats its last Thanksgiving
in a world that has forgotten how to be.