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The world ended on a Tuesday. As the weatherman predicted, the morning was party cloudy with scattered showers in the afternoon.

Yet, unlike most days, the birds didn’t sing in the trees, the automatic sprinklers stayed stubbornly still, and cars ceased their omnipresent rumbling. The rain, when it came, was black as tar and left wide pockmarks in the earth. Above, the sun was dimmed by a thick layer of ash.

Alone in this new world, was the roach. Of course, the roach would not know that it was a Tuesday, nor would it know much beyond the realm of its spindly feelers. Maybe, the roach was glad it was alone, without so many noises and people to send it scuttling back to the cracks and corners of the street. There would be nothing left for the roach to fear.

And maybe, after finding another, the roaches would grow in number until they filled the world with a writhing mass of their children. Each child roach would claw to the top of the crush for a taste of feeble sunlight, only to tumble back into the seething horde.

Tuesday would be the day of roaches.

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