John’s Last Day on Earth

John had a horrible day, just like any other day.  Every step he took was a dreadful reminder that he was still very much alive.  Today is his last day on earth.  Luckily, he did not care what type of weather he would experience during his last few remaining hours.  John always found a way to see the pointlessness of things. For John, the clear sky intensified the sun’s energy. The plants used it to complete their cycles to postpone their enviable death. John raises an eyebrow as he thinks about the pointlessness of the vegetation’s efforts. In comparisons to the existence of the universe, their death is postponed a mere fraction of a trecentillion second.  The trees, no matter what age they reach, will fall and new resource sucking animated structures will consume it.

The cycle will never end.

John raises both eyebrows as he realized his own cells continue the same pointlessness– this madness– despite his knowledge of this greatest truth.  John shook his head.  It was not truth, he concluded.  Truths are weaved from an abstract nether by those who want to live another day.  John has no need for truths.  It was an obvious logical observation from the brevity of a self-aware rational being.  Whether a truth can stand against adversity and be tenable to the world’s attacking hordes, it did not matter.  Holding such hope and steadfast commitment to an idea, was as reasonable and sound as building a sand castle near the water’s edge during a low tide.  Nature and time forces us back into its fold.

Eager to pass away, John picks up his pace to exit out his city’s park.  John enters a crowded street.  Carbon emission organics clip his shoulders as he quickly weaves through the sidewalk’s human like weeds.  Rounding the corner, the intense motor sulfuric air pulls at John’s nose hairs and scratches his lower frontal lobes while coating the taste on his tongue.   John thanks himself as he remembers that today is his last day. The world’s Homo sapiens, with the pleasantry of an Amorphophallus titanum, would not interfere in his short awaited peace.

In a narrow alleyway, a soft but bright blue light sat on top of a phone booth like structure.  It reads, ‘Phosphorus Reclamation Department.’  John was a bit surprised at the level of protest his nerves expressed.  Their protest is the tachycardia.  Nevertheless, John entered the booth despite the protest.

There was just enough room to sit comfortably in a cream-colored leather chair.  John enjoyed the amount of legroom.  The bright-lighted booth began to dim itself.  The booth’s door closed.  It was unfortunate that John saw the door.  Apparently, given the cosmetic disfigurement of the door and chipped nails embedded into it, some individuals got second thoughts. The air roared past his ears toward the ceiling.  The booth goes dark and silent. As the air thins, the air’s feeble hands tighten around John’s neck. He lets out a loud sigh to encourage his heart to slow. Fresh air began to hiss near his feet.  The stench of stale life purified.

A touch screen burst with life.  A deep blue glow calmed his nerves.  “Well-end,” it said.  John agreed.

“Please take a moment to determine where you would like your remains to be used and distributed.”

The interface was pleasantly simple.  The icons arranged itself similar to tic-tac-toe.  There is an icon resembling a canned meat, the chemical structure of phosphorus pentoxide, the Red Cross, the Forniphilla Company, the International Necrophilia Association, the Eugenics Corporation, the National Endowment of the Arts, the American Carbon Construction Corporation, and a trash can.

John did not hesitate.  John pushed the trash can icon.

“John, are you sure you wish to serve no purpose in regards to your remains?”

John rapidly and continuously pressed yes.

“John, the earth is for the living.  Would you please reconsider?”

John would not.  John, thinking aloud said, “the earth is for the elements.”

Upon pressing yes for the forty-second time, which the program required to finalize a person’s trash icon decision, the pad spoke, “Thank you for contributing to the Population Stability and Creative Problem Solving Initiative.  “Would you like to record a fair well video to love ones?”

John presses no.

“Would you like to have a portion of your ashes mailed to a love one(s)?”

John presses no.

“Would you like to delay your well-end to reflect on your life?”

John presses no.

“Would you like to donate your estate to the United States government, a love one(s), or select from a list of various foundations?”

John is apathetic.  John selected the U.S. government, since it is the least burdensome option.

“Thank you John. For your courage and sacrifice, the Presidential Medal of Freedom has been award to you.  Your relatives will be informed.”

John felt nothing.

The booth goes dark.  The hiss of purified air stops.  The air thins. The silence rings John’s ears.  It is unbearable.  John concludes at this point, most people turn towards the door and attempt to claw themselves out.  John is not like those fearful mammals.  Suddenly, the floor opens.  Between his dangling feet, a red glow meets his eyes.  He thought, ‘this glow’s origin is several hundred feet below.’

The chair flung forward like the bar of a mousetrap. John let out a yelp.  His nerves and heart are no longer controlled.  He spent his last few seconds flailing his arms and legs as the wind whooshed past his head.  The temperature increased and the red glow brightened.  John’s body passes through a BioChip-2000 human chipper as a red mist. The furnace was the catalyst to send John from a lower state of energy into a colorless, but odorous gas.  John pasted through a series of High Efficiency Particulate Air filters.  He exits out into the open air and begins to raise toward the dihydrogen monoxide formations above the city.  The formation will grow heavy and begin to fall on the hot streets.  John will continue this endless cycle.

The earth is for the elements.

Advertisements

About Logan

Logan lives in Arkansas
This entry was posted in Humor, Literature, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s