The first sinkhole appeared on Main Street overnight, where once had stood a covered manhole rusted with car oil, corroded by bird droppings.

Soon more holes cropped up between fuchsia bougainvilleas, quaint storefronts, under parked cars blocking wheelchair ramps. Metal, as if chewed by mandibles, rang throughout most neighborhoods in the screeching night.

In the morning, a specialist from out of town was called, the mayor pleading, Hurry, goddamn it, we’re so close to elections, before he placed an order for several spools of police tape and bee-striped hazard signs.

Wormholes, the specialist announced, tracing a gloved finger through the cosmic-echo-gunk gathered like silt at the edges of a nearby sinkhole. Licking it clean.

Then, the first children began to disappear. Those, the neighbors rushed to rationalize, were the bad children. Or, if not bad then surely the children of bad homes. The broken ones.

And some of those kids—lemming-walking one after the other—allowed themselves to be swallowed in the night, embraced by matrix portals to other worlds, whole worlds, thrumming terrae incognitae. And others still became the black holes themselves, sucking their parents in: the bad ones, the broken ones.

Holes beget holes, the pastors preached beside the wreckage.

We want our children back, the parents left behind pronounced with tear-drenched faces on the news. Though inside they were thinking, Thank god we were neglectful enough our children ran away, but not so abusive they decided to devour us whole.

Regional apocalypses were known to bring forth new games and traditions. When adults looked away—and they were often looking away—the teenagers liked to jump over the sinkholes. Hopscotch of the highest stakes, despite the police warning to steer clear. Girls threw stones down the holes after school, then pressed soft ears to gritty ground, poised for the plop. All that resounded was the universe’s labored breathing reminiscent of three a.m. panic attacks smothered under hands, pillows, each others’ lips.

Come night, secrets replaced stones. A vigil of stolen birthday candles enclosed the police tape, the warning signs flashing like neon angels in the dark. Into the sinkholes the secrets went: bad grade reports, notes of betrayal or forbidden love, towels stained with first blood, teddy bears thought to be no longer needed. Once, a pair of frilly underwear, miscarriage-red.

And the girls who had been dreaming of Wonderland, Neverland—of the world vanishing or safekept into the pockets of their school uniforms—leaned in, braids swinging, cross necklaces lost to the abyss as they asked, Hello, hello, is anyone there? Is anyone coming to save me?

Hello, came the echo. Then, taunting, abject silence.

And the boys, farther downtown, dared each other to jump in. What are you, a coward? Bullies dangled their victim over sinkholes by shirt collars or backpack straps, scared little baby, are you? And the suicides, wondering what the universe would feel like stroking their hair in the freefall, please, just a kind touch, that kind of touch is all I want.

By the time the adults came to inspect the holes at dawn, the children were back in their own beds, or swallowed in the cradle of the cosmos. The adults calculated with tools and formulas the sinkholes’ circumferences, making sure they didn’t grow bigger overnight. Big enough to swallow them all.

The children that remained ate breakfast, brushed their teeth, walked to school. Their gazes lingered over the sinkholes, wormholes, black holes thrumming with charm and strange. The children wondered what it would take to practice spelunking, bungee-jumping, deep-space swimming.

To disappear completely, hoping to be found.

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Avra Margariti is a queer author and poet from Greece. Avra’s work haunts publications such as SmokeLong Quarterly, Wigleaf, Best Microfiction, and Best Small Fictions. You can find Avra on twitter (@avramargariti).