The Last Human

I just want to be where the sun shines down. Take away these sleepless nights under the plastic moon. Give me the clouds, the fog, the rain, anything but this, this perfect weather. I remember, as a child, praying for the rain to go away: rain rain go away come again another day.

To be outside, in the rain, my hands held high to the heavens. Letting the moisture seep into my clothing and sticking my hair to my head. Give me the rolling thunder, the brilliance of lightning, the lucid smell of a clean world.

Take away these walls. Release me from this picturesque cage with its Main Street and General Store. With its perfectly green grass, the beautiful azalea gardens, the beach and all its splendor at dusk. But most of all, take away the library, for it is there that I am reminded of what has been. All these things I yearn for can be found there, in books and magazines, pictures and words, stories and poems. All that is left of my ancestors, my people, my race.

I speak of course, of humanity, homo sapiens sapiens. Everything that is left of us is in that room. My best calculations, I am no mathematician, is that the main aisle is over seven hundred twenty eight miles long. That’s an estimate I pulled out of thin air. My door opens at the Z section, and it is two hundred twenty-seven rows long (28 miles) so I multiplied that by twenty-six, for each letter of the alphabet. I imagine there are probably more rows for different letters; Z is rather obscure.

I got bored once, decided I wanted to read something by Houdini, see if I could figure out how to escape. I packed some food and began to walk. I had enough food and water for roughly six days. I did not stop and think that if I walked for six days I would need food for the return six. After three days without food and water all the aisles began to look alike, rows and rows of books, dvds, cds, videos and magazines, twenty-feet tall. I kept second guessing that I was on the main aisle and would head down a side one thinking it was the one, but coming across another and becoming positive that it was the one. Long story short, I never got out of Z.

I guess I eventually passed out because I woke up in my little blue bed in my little blue room in my little blue house on Fifth Avenue. I have no idea exactly how long I was lost in the Library, there was no night there, just endless artificial light.

The next time I walked by the door I found a package of nutritional bars and a pedometer. I made it to Y on six bars, I had twenty, and found I had walked twenty-eight miles. If nothing else, my captors seem to wish the best for me. Of course, I’ve heard the way to hell is paved with good intentions. They probably didn’t mean to obliterate humanity, it was just a by-product of Huiaokctotbuas. I have no idea how to spell it, but that’s what it sounds like, sorta.

It has always seemed to me, that if the Huiaok are so technologically advanced that they could easily have cloned, or replicated more humans, if they so desired. They could’ve at least given me someone to hang out with. This whole enclosure is designed for a hundred or so occupants with thirteen houses, six commercial structures, a movie theatre, a gas station with mini-mart. There are two farms, corn and wheat, they grow like clockwork and someone harvests them every year. It never rains and I’m not watering them, but they grow and develop just the same.

No weeds either, in fact, no lifeforms whatsoever. I dug down in the dirt, it goes about twenty feet before turning into the grey substance that encloses the whole place. Not a single bug, or worm or parasite. No flies, no birds, no cats or dogs. Not even rats or mice.

I am the single living thing in this whole place.

The Last Human

April 2013 A to Z Challenge

So I am going to try this A to Z Challenge thing next month as a way to get into a rhythm of writing something each day.

I haven’t an ounce of discipline in me, so, I’ll probably last a week.

 

 

 

April 2013 A to Z Challenge

The Telescope

There is some discussion amongst certain philosophers that the real Tower of Babel, that God so ingeniously did away with, was not really a tower so much as it was a set of ideas, or inventions that would’ve brought about disastrous effects to all of mankind. Space travel, some say, genetic engineering say others. But couldn’t it be conceivable that the real Tower of Babel, built to reach out to God and touch his heavens, was in fact a telescope? What worse thing to befall humanity than to look out from its little ball of existence and come to the tragic realization that everything is very much bigger and emptier than anyone’s wildest imaginations. So of course God, the one from the Old Testament, that figure of patriarchal power and not the quietly absent one from the New Testament, would look around and see that a telescope would be a very nasty thing. Imagine an ant climbing to the top of its mound one day and instead of taking its place in line, looking up and out at the great heavens and beginning to wonder what sort of meaning its life has in the grand scheme of things. Thankfully an ant doesn’t experience moments of distress over its routines and never would dream, if insects are so inclined, of looking past the rump of the ant in from of it. Humans, however, have lots of time to think about such things. So God, if He is to be believed in, struck down the works of man in an attempt to reach up and out. Man of course just wiped the blood off his nose and tried again and again and again and again.

The Telescope

Fiction: Lenny

Mid-30’s-slightly balding, rounded face, a 14oz porterhouse decaying in his intestine, just starting to catch up with the 12ouncer from last night. Leonard Duffy sat flipping through the channels…clickclickclickclickclickclick…channel 200…rounding 300 and heading to 400.

“Lenny!” bellowed the great doughy being that was his wife. “Lenny take out the trash!”

He shrank down in his couch.

“LEONARD!” came another crackle from the kitchen.

All right. Geesh.

Continue reading “Fiction: Lenny”

Fiction: Lenny

Fiction: the ballad of cyn roderick

somewhere, somehow, exhists a place.
a place like this one
with blue skies and green grass
with little boys and little girls
with kittens and puppies
with burglaries and murders
with teen pregnancy and dead-beat dads

Continue reading “Fiction: the ballad of cyn roderick”

Fiction: the ballad of cyn roderick

Fiction: The Courier

The sounds–repetitive, squishy thuds—were beginning to wear Denizen’s patience thin. It was no longer a case of ‘softening up’ the man, his face was now a mess of blood and jagged flesh. His eyes had nearly swollen shut and each breath whistled loudly out of the hole that no longer resembled a nose.

“All right Tommy, ease up,” said Denizen.

Tommy, an overweight youth with lots of prison gained muscle, stepped back and away from his victim.

Denizen studied the man sitting bound in the old wooden chair.

“Do we know him?” he asked.

“Calls himself ‘the Courier,’” said the Contractor, a scrawny old man with an ever-present stub of a cigar stuck between his rotting lips.

The name stirred an image in Denizen’s mind. He saw the bloodied man standing in a room surrounded by fifteen or so dead bodies. One survivor had tried to run but was now gagging and sputtering blood every which way, a knife protruding out of the nape of his neck. The Courier had thrown the knife with his right hand; his left hand held a semi-auto pistol, blue-and-black steel had been molded together giving the lightweight weapon an unusual look. He stepped over one of the fallen men and movement caught his eye, one of the bodies was moving, trying to crawl, he stepped to it and ended its escape with a single bullet.

Continue reading “Fiction: The Courier”

Fiction: The Courier