Mad Marx’s Post-Modern Post-Apocalypse ~ fiction by Barlow Adams

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At the end of the world, with civilization in ruin, Mad Marx’s cell phone rang again. The words “unknown caller” flashed across a screen that was cracked and scratched from an Armageddon that even an Otterbox couldn’t fully defend against. Despite the mystery, Mad Marx knew who it was–he only got one kind of call since the fall–and sent it to his already full voicemail with a press of his thumb.

A frown pulled down his dry, weathered lips at the thought of those chittering voices all stacked on top of each other in that condensed, faraway space–a pocket dimension accessible by holding the number one, a vast emptiness where once a million messages waited, conversations sealed in Ziploc bags never to be opened.

The light from the missed call indicator momentarily brightened the cave, and he could see his mother’s thin frame huddled against the stone wall. Her small…

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