The holes in the doors shone daylight.
I opened the door, my eyes squinting from the unexpected brightness.

A man running. A muffin sprouting hole in his head. Blood spraying behind him.

I walk across an empty street, stale muffins littering the ground. Dents in cars, holes in windows. Muffins where they shouldn’t be.

A woman crying for her child. Her child lying backwards in the grass. A muffin protruding from her face.

I see no survivors. I can’t be the only one. It’s just not possible. I fall onto my knees, curse the gods.

When I was a child, I would say that when it was raining that was just God crying. Snow came when it was cold because the tears would freeze before they hit the ground.

What the hell could possibly make it rain muffins?
Stale.
Muffins.