The Creation

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a story that I submitted to a magazine named, "The Arcanist" and they reject it. So why don't I post it here and wonder what people think of it. It is a story of poetic satire about the last man at the end of the world. When I read it myself, I was thrilled of it.

Submitted: November 02, 2018

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Submitted: November 02, 2018

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The rubble is created over the one condition of his carelessness. The sands have overtaken time in the cities that have not been analyzed by the last pages of what happened here. Like the Mayans, they will be unknown in the specters of dust. The streetlights holds no light. The signs to the roads are lain on the over spatial ground with grass that is grown higher than any anyone that once lived on this little blue island in the middle of space. The skeletons are all known to what possibly happened here. The archives of history are darkened in the world that yelled names that are only whispers in the past, not heard and never heard again.

The creation of human’s knowledge is what did this when there is one man alive and one man left unharmed. He stood in the middle of the forest with his food in tow and his life questioned to the infection of his consciousness. He is alone and he will die alone. It is his punishment, you see. He made the creation that killed everyone on this little blue ball in the middle of space. He shook his head to the voices that are in his head when he took justice to look back to his home. It stood taller than any building that is created by human since the bombs try to kill the creation by one little accident that changed the world entire.

The man closed his eyes and waited for the coast to clear. He knew that the creation made it this way. He is not alone when he is within the land of his creation when humans made a genetic change that is almost frightening. He stayed in his home at night and hears the screeches that are behind the walls. He grimaced and told his soul for it to be okay, drinking himself to sleep when the voices of ghosts got to the point that he almost felt the need to scream them out.

If he does, he will be the last man to be killed in the land that was once majored in the tally of humans. Now it is majored in the tally of beasts that are unique, not natural for the eyes that see when he saw two of them hunt down a deer and disembowel it by imaginings that made him most uncomfortable. He lied in the clearing when it happened; almost fighting the urge for his breakfast not to come up when he tried not to make the sounds that he hated most of all. They have hearing senses that are higher than most and claws that are at length of almost four feet in length. He observed these confounded changes in humans when he thought of taking notes on the matter.

What is the point? He is the last man on earth. Who is going to read his notes? After seeing the observance, he meddled this in his mind over a bowl of blueberries when he listened to music on his MP3 device. That morning, he set out with the grass that is slowly changing over to a rust color. He figured that there is something odd happening with the sediments in the ground. It is so unlike for the grass to be changing into a brown color when it has been raining for the past three weeks now. What if there is something in the water when he looked at the rainclouds that are amassed in the atmosphere. What if the virus has somehow become adamant in the rain? The man who created the virus looked at the rainclouds with a sheer uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his gut.

What can the man do? Save the world? He has already murdered the world in the sight of his own sick brand of justice by accident. Now he is imprisoned on this world and he is now serving his own justice of being the last human on this little Island. He is like Robinson Crusoe with no Friday. He is a man with no woman in the middle of this vast Blue Lagoon. He is alone and alone he shall be for the rest of his life.

If it is in the rain then there will be problems. He knew that. That is one of the branches of knowing about that he has not trialed yet on his immunity. He waited for what is to come from the rain as he also kept his nerve up on the day when he picked mushrooms. He has the rifle but what is the point of shooting it. They will zero his position and that will be the end of the last man on earth. He picked the mushrooms just the same when he came to one mushroom that has dark circles on the shroud. He didn’t think of eating it when he thought of researching it. That night he did when his observation came to the conclusion that drowned his horror.

The virus is mutating to another form and it will infect the harvest crops in an eventual notice. That is bad on his part when he had a mental break and laughed until he cried. It is in the food, what luck? It is in the food when he thought of the parasites that are out there beyond the walls of his home. They have the taste of meat when he thought of saying, “To hell with it,” as he prepared the dish of mushroom stew on this night.

The last observation will be him after all as he prepared the notes on the last human that has become the carrier, a patient zero in the land of the dead. What luck as it eventually ran out for him.


© Copyright 2018 Adam Steele. All rights reserved.

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