June 5th, 3050
The sun is rising at the moment. And I can’t seem to keep my eyes closed long enough to sleep. There is a ring of the palest pink slinking along the rim of a bowl sitting on my counter. The sun is a globe rising above that and if I lean at just the right angle I can imagine the sun is one with the bowl. The room is starting to lighten now, the sky a pastel of purples and oranges now. This could be the last thing I see. You never know when things could die. We weren’t made to last forever...
A sigh is stuck somewhere deep within my lungs and my eyes are glued to the bowl sitting before me, the half moon filled by the light and shadow of the sun. Nothing stirs, not a leaf, not a paper, not even the windmill that sits despondent in my front yard. Somewhere a dog is whining, muzzled for the night and longing to stretch its jaws. In the house next to me a baby is wailing for its mother. In the house on the other side the baby is quiet. That is a bad sign.
Something has been happening lately. Babies are being born silent, not so much as a sigh or whimper to express its needs. They aren’t stillborns, seeing as that has been solved. They are physically healthy, growing just as a newborn should, but once they reach a certain point things are obvious. There is a disease happening. A maddening sickness that is spreading through bad genes and all too common mutations. The rate at which these diseased infants are being born is alarming, already fifty percent of them born genetically mutated. The baby next door grows silent.
YOU ARE READING
End of Year
Science Fiction"I think the world is gone. I can't tell through my tears though. I can only hear myself sobbing and whispering and shouting "'She's dead. She's dead. She's dead.'" And I think in this moment my heart is gone, too. I want to kill myself just to see...
