Time Machines: An End of the World Inventory
by Ginger Weil
The watch strapped to your wrist is a time machine, recording your movement forward through time. The ticking drives you mad, and you can't get that smear off the dial.
The earth is a time machine, spinning you through a succession of days. Each day is long enough to dig a grave behind your house, but you are running out of open land. At night, things crawl out of the graves and you wait for the earth to spin you forward in time again and bring back the sun.
Your telomeres are time machines, recording your slow progress forward through history, breaking down as you age. If only the virus hadn't latched on to those broken ends.
Your memory is a time machine but it never takes you anywhere you want to go. You stay awake at night, clutching your gun, trying not to remember.