This is just a concept I was toying with today, it's a bit interesting in my opinion but harder than I expected to develop.
Word count: 495
24 Hours after the world ended.
Oh yes, I know just how strange it seems to see those words…imagine how it feels to be scrawling them on this page. Then again, I seem to be assuming this page will even be found—or perhaps I’m simply trying to keep myself sane by inventing a new persona with which to interact. Well hello there possibly-non-existent-person-reading-this, would you like to be my friend?
You would? Smashing!
To say that the world ended unexpectedly would be…untruthful, all those wonderful theories about the universe imploding, or the underworld vomiting forth legions of unholy warriors, or even the sun exploding…all of them were proven false. Unfortunately that means that with the world ended there aren’t even any downed alien spacecraft to take refuge in—or alien overlords to pack us up and ship us away. All that remains is the desolation of a brutal war.
Oh yes, it was we that destroyed us—should that come as any surprise? How often have writers clamored about how our own hubris would destroy us all? Hmm, I can’t recall the exact number, but I do know that philosophers and others of note have put forth the claim that we were inevitably doomed to destroy all that we created—including ourselves.
And so we have. It almost seems banal when you think about it.
You might expect that I would feel some great sense of sorrow about all of this…I don’t know, after all we just met. However I am somewhat surprised to tell you that I do not, perhaps I’m simply not entirely sure that I’m the last human left alive...after all, doesn’t all good fiction have at least one small group of surviving humans? I half expect to wake up tomorrow and find either a group of mutants at the door, or have the entire ruin in which I am staying transformed into some sort of Mad Max’esque fortress.
I feel I must also say that a post apocalyptic world is simply not as interesting as it is portrayed in fiction. In fact it’s quite disappointing. There’s no mutants thus far, no foliage, and nothing prowling about in the ruined city—not even some vaguely disfigured brain-addled humans. Instead there is nothing but the wind blowing its lament over our infinite foolishness. It blows through the canyons that were once shopping malls, through the decimated city, even atop the now-poisoned water.
It really is sad in a way. Not just in that we were inevitably failures in our own destruction—after all, I survived…and others likely did as well. So not only is pathetic that with our last act as a species we were still cursed with failure. It’s also sad in that this is the end of the human race. Not some great and splendorous thing Not some monumental crash and epic destruction. No, instead it’s just an old man scrawling out our epilogue.
Don’t you think it’s sad, my friend?