Reeking piles of doggerel

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Ansel Adams was a liar

The roads in the United States, were not paved with gold, not even metaphorically. Noah had had to come to terms with that long ago.

It was coming to terms with what the streets were lined with, covered with now that was even harder than the first revelation.

Debris littered the Americas. Debris of the dead, of the terrible war that had murdered the world in less than two months, of the monstrosities that had somehow escaped the boundaries of it’s creators, it’s parents, to murder, and now possibly rule the globe rest of eternity.

What was a crime such as this called: matricide, patricide, infanticide, genocide? Regardless, it was brutal and swift.

As Noah walked down the street, he could see some wit had scrawled in large letters on a building:

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, for the instant obliteration of the world!”

The author, was clearly next to the words, hanging from a telegraph pole. Dogs has been at his bare feet, and such a short time ago that the fresh paint still dripped from his fingers.

The dogs had gone now – Noah could hear their barks and howls a few blocks away.

The Lighthouse Keeper

He stood alone on the east coast of America. The wind was still this sunrise, and had he have yelled aloud, his voice would have been heard for miles away. Not that there was anyone to hear him – the last person alive he had seen had been the crazy homeless man who had been living in the cave near the lighthouse for at least the last decade. The crazy homeless man’s now suppurating carcass adorned the rocks leading to his beloved cave, grey and swollen: another victim of the dreaded plague.

Said lighthouse was a few miles south, but it’s light didn’t shine now. Seldom did even a finger of sunlight penetrate the thick, dark, dust clouds now imitating cumlo nimbus, that covered, stifled, hid the earth from the rest of the galaxy.

The ocean had taken on a different hue since the sky had become dirty and dull. It was now approaching dawn, yet the water held no twinkle.

A great oil slick covered the east coast of America. Animals, in their thousands were either dying or dead. Not five metres away from where Will stood, a dying bird lay, it’s wing waving feebly under a layer of black slime and gunk. It was almost impossible to tell what kind of bird it was.

Like a finger of God, a feeble ray of sunrise sunshine managed to force it’s way through the dust clouds that now surrounded the earth. Despite it’s paleness, it contrasted violently to the dark roiling grey clouds.

It alighted on a shape pressed into the black sand, and abruptly disappeared. Left in the dimness, the shape was imprinted on Will’s brain.

It had been a footprint, and where one footprint was, there had to be another.

Will took the shaft of light as a sign and headed up the beach following the footsteps.

He hated leaving the bird behind, a slim sign of life in this desolate place, ┬ábut knew in his heart there was nothing he could do for it and had not the stomach to put the poor creature out of it’s misery. As he walked along the beach he thought of how life was before. How the beach had looked when the sun was just setting or rising. Now the dark waters held none of that beauty. He continued up the beach following the footsteps. As they approached the rocky cliff. His heart pounded at the thought of meeting another human.

The wind picked up as he followed them, unerring to the south. It seemed that their owner had little disregard for what he walked through, for several time, Will was forced to walk around the dead carcasses of birds, dogs, once even a human, washed up onto the shore at high tide. It was bloated, tongue protruding grotesquely, fingers like sausages, hair seaweedy and straggly. The walker had passed over her.

Finally, Will reached the light house. The wind was whipping up a fury by now, though the clouds in the sky where heavier, rose coloured. Any rain that washed through those clouds would certainly be toxic.

The footprints went up to the open door of the lighthouse and continued up the spiral staircase.

One night stand

Each fooling each that
this is important and forever
though the night is finite:
soon enough dawn come.

searching for oblivion
through the knowledge of another
passing in the night: unfamiliarity
the only common interest.

Unfamiliarity and solace:
the neverending pursuit of notaloneness.