THE LAST SANE MAN ALIVE
Winter arrived
in July this year, a cloud of ruin brought gorgeous ashen snow. The deadly
flakes danced through the florid sky, clinging loosely to his balding hair, a
doomsday toupee. The fluorescent fungus in the horizon was a perfectly framed
photograph. The end looked so lovely he could hardly pull himself away to hide.
Miles away, the city wailed its last gasps.
An underground
bunker in the country, fully stocked. An ocean's worth of bottled water
towering to the ceiling. An antique solid oak shelf overstuffed with his most
prized canned goods. Boston baked beans, cream of broccoli soup, hominy grits,
mandarin oranges. A framed black and white photo of his wife in a summer dress,
taken in 1965 on their honeymoon, twenty years before she passed. A well-taped
cardboard box containing his most favorite dusty literature, an extra pair of
reading glasses, for he's no Burgess Meredith. Tiny vanilla candles to dull the
scent of the latrine. A brand new generator, tested once for proper operation,
once again for security. A small color television and VCR to watch home movies
of his grandchildren back in Arkansas. A radio for hopeful news.
He waited for days for help to come, he
waited for weeks receiving none, he waited for months, never again to view the
radiant sun.