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Rated: 18+ · Prose · Tragedy · #2207187
The last days of humanity go out with a bang

Wash your hands

Time expands to slow the body. A lifetime of dreams, travelling as light, what was once eternal, now confined in the remainder.

What's left? Always less than what's been.

Perfume fades. Dusty Parisian vessels, glass lined in residue, the essence of long-dead petals, crushed by the promise of romantic release.

Vacant bins offer dust, the empty promise of divine re-fulfillment. The Salesman sold out, the buyer flush with cash but no time to bargain.

Nano terror cells extinguish every sense but number six. Sightless and deaf, we run for the exits, wallets and purses clutched tight out of habit.

Don't look little one; don't watch as the movie hero fails. An idol learns a lesson in humility. Wash your hands and blow them dry, touch nothing and no body. No harm will come if nobody touches you.

Feed your energy, pretentious as it seems, licking the last crumbs from the bottom of a cashew can. Dust to dust. Leave only a reflection, a lonely tin-face, shining from an empty vessel.

The great pumpkin sinks in the west, never to return. Water steals fire. Once doused, it can never rekindle.

Empty dark highways spoil the thrill of speeding, silent but for roaring wind. The blind GPS offers no direction, no alternative route. OnStars twinkle and die.

Open windows welcome snow and frigid sobriety. Raw red skin tingles, bathed in the radio hiss of creation; something from nothing, now nothing can return.

The fever intensifies, clammy skin bonds to contaminated cloth. The brain aches, pulses, throbbing to a disco charade.

Numbers and lines equal nothing. Velocity freed, but escape's an illusion. Lap upon lap, circuit after circuit - a new record with every orbit. The city blurs - every off-ramp closed, guarded by the devout.

Don't wait until dawn, there's little point - the son won't be back tomorrow.

Save a little fuel for your lighter, a quick cigarette does no harm; it won't kill you. Lady cancer needs a damp place to grow and decades to make ready her breathless blindside. Inhale the drug deep; let it fill every limb. Give ashes to the passing hurricane, save the filters for your ears.

One more lap, red-lined and longing for a payphone. They laughed with smug delight when the last box was yanked from re-barred roots. But your new love has deserted you. Eight ounces of lifeless plastic, cold and dead at your side, valueless save as a projectile.

Faster now - outrun the microbes in the trunk, near the empty beer bottles, next to the snow brush and gloves. There, in the damp corner, near the cooler with the food, the stockings and heels of a virus in heat. Tainted sushi - the meat spoiled and rank, but the presentation is spectacular. The wasabi looks like a swan.

Once all are infected, everyone is normal.

No hope of containment, now the swan has the flu. A single strand of DNA twists and weaves across twelve empty lanes. The lonely vanguard of anger and regret. No officer gives chase - no radar returns the rage.

Tiny snippets legacy cower deep in submarines or high in orbit; watching, unaffected, silenced by irony. Progeny will slowly run out of clean air.

Host becomes slave.

Where's Rambo, where are the movie heroes?

Who will negotiate for life or pacify the savages? Who will stop the slaughter, offering up the grand bargain? Who speaks for all, with one voice, one god? Who can sue for peace without settling for servitude?

Release the one who kills all that kills.

Let the blistering light blind like Manhattan, we knew the project would work.

Mushrooms grow large and ubiquitous; no nation overlooked. They sprout from the thin crust of global shit - equal in reach and vitality, radiating a momentary pain of salvation.

Is there anybody out there?

Karl the cockroach chisels epitaphs on Time Square granite. Finding an empty theater, he watches us play on screen - popcorn cornerstones and sugar foundations will nourish him for centuries, as it did for us, and the idols we worshiped.

Blinding light fades to black.

No one will watch him feed.

© Copyright 2019 James F Martin (mjfeatherston at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2207187