I am at a loss for topics today, so here’s a bit of fiction I wrote for a friend a while ago. He provided the prompt and I ran with it. It’s more bleak than I normally want to be, but it may be the start of a style for further speculative writing work.
Dr. Orion Obsidian, the Man of Stone
May 24, 2257
Diary Entry that Could be my Last
(But then I write that every day.)
It’s barely dawn and I am drinking thin muddy water that I want to pretend is coffee. I have read that coffee was a magical drink hundreds of years ago, providing daily strength and inspiration to all people at an affordable price. I wonder what it tasted like. I believe it was meant to be consumed at a warm temperature. Must research.
I am traveling alone to the End of the World. It’s an actual spot on the map, or a map anyways. I found this map in one of the many trash heaps dotting this arid landscape. The sands have finally overtaken the tepid oasis which was my respite. I met good people there. We all left at the same time, without saying goodbye.
The lost art of following maps experienced a resurgence when the thing called electricity went off, and then never came back on. Some people are still waiting, centuries later. Once, a person could ask any question of the very air, and get a response. Many times the response was a riddle, or just pure nonsense, but the mere fact of the answer’s existence was enough to calm people’s curiosity enough so that they never actually left their homes. Hence, no need for maps, or the ability to read them.
But all that is long in the past. Today I walk through the endless sameness of the sands in the direction called north. Until.
Time. Is. Running. Out.
No matter how many postcards we get from this place, We all have to go there ourselves Before we believe it.
if you want the world to end,
you have to do