March 29, 2021
It’s been almost 15 months since the coronavirus plague ravaged the planet, killing more than seven billion souls, or 90% of humanity. Everyone I knew last year at this time — everyone most of us knew — succumbed to the virus. It’s been several months now since I last saw another human being, and she was almost dead. The animals have pretty much taken over the planet, running around, foraging, even feasting on the remains of human bodies. They must be immune. I must be immune, since I’m still alive.
I remember when this whole thing started and people treated it like it was the flu. Politicians and leaders were downplaying the virus, saying that it was the media that was blowing it out of proportion, telling us that the government had it under control and that it would miraculously disappear.
The religious nuts called it God’s curse on humanity’s sinful ways. But they’re all gone now too. God didn’t save the pious and now God is dead. Humanity is all but dead.
And soon I’ll be dead, too. I can’t go out anymore without risking being attacked by the coyotes, wild dogs, and wolves. There is little to no food left, no electricity, no heat. I’m not sure what good my immunity is doing if I starve or freeze to death or am devoured by hungry wild animals.
Well, Dear Diary, this may Very well be my last entry. Despite the danger, I’m going to venture out of the sanctuary of my home to replenish my supply of food and goods. If I’m successful, I’ll write again tonight. If not, well, at this point, does it really matter?
Written for the Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Sunday Writing Prompt. The challenge is to write a diary/journal entry.
Having recently retired and with time on his hands, Clark decided to fulfill his life’s greatest ambition. With a head full of ideas, interesting and compelling characters, and intricate, twisty plot lines, he would write the great American novel.
Clark was old school. It wasn’t that he was a technophobe. He just liked the feel of using a manual typewriter. So he put aside his laptop and took out his old, antique Underwood, slipped a piece of paper on the roller, and started pounding away on the keyboard.
Before he finished the fourth page, though, Clark stopped typing. “Damn arthritis.”
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Jeff Arnold.
When Aaron was a toddler, everyone thought he was slow, dull, and, well, not the brightest bulb in the box.
The whole family was worried about him.
It turned out, though, that while Aaron may have been slow to bloom, by the time he got to middle school, he was shining brightly and his IQ test scored him as a near genius. He was sharp as a tack, he didn’t miss a trick, his mind was like a steel trap, absorbing everything he learned. And he excelled.
The whole family was proud of him.
By the time he reached middle age, Aaron had amassed a series of accomplishments in science, medicine, and technology. He was considered a world renowned expert in epidemiology.
His family was impressed by him.
When Aaron became a senior citizen, he rapidly declined. He had trouble remembering things, even his family. His mind became dull and his thoughts muddled. He could remember things from years past, but not anything recent. He was no longer the man he was just a few years earlier.
His family is worried about him.
Written for Paula Light’s Thursday Inspiration, where the theme is “sharp.”
Jack received a notification ping on his smartphone, picked it up his phone, and saw this image sent to him from his best friend, Todd.
“Todd, why did you send me a random picture of some astronaut out in space?” Jack tapped out on his phone’s virtual keypad.
“That’s not a random picture, Jack, that’s me,” Todd replied, “and I’m just practicing effective social distancing in the age of coronavirus, good buddy! 😉”
Written for this week’s Three Line Tales prompt from Sonya. Image credit: NASA via Unsplash.
“I thought you were gonna call it the ‘Pink Cadillac Diner,’” Dwight said.
“Yeah, that was the plan,” Derek said. “I bought the dam car and all.
“So what happened?”
“Roger,” Derek said, “does whatever he wants to do no matter who he hurts.”
“But isn’t he your 50/50 partner in the diner?” Dwight asked.
“Supposedly,” Derek said, “and he loved the pink Cadillac idea, but he wanted to name the diner ‘Rock-n-Rogers,’ so he had the Caddy painted, hoisted it to the top of the tall sign post, and told me if I don’t like it, I can take it down.”
I’m a few days late for the Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, but here it is. Photo credit: J Hardy Carroll.