A Field. The last field. The final untarnished safe place bathed in the last moonlight to be seen by human eyes. A being standing in the center, hair blowing in the wind of the oncoming storm. The storm that had ravaged the earth, destroying everything it touched.

Now the last human pulse beats hopelessly in the last human breast. All is over. All is lost. A ring sits on the fourth finger on the right hand, being incessantly spun by the thumb, calling the storm on, begging for that single strike that would send humanity spinning into oblivion. Forever forgotten.


The wind picks up. Thunder clashes with bright flashes of cold light. Eyes search the sky, find the mass of turbulent black cloud swirling above. The hand reaches toward heaven, or hell, for both are present in the undulating blackness. Both waiting to devour the last soul into itself.

The ring burns blue against the violent streaks of white hot light. The hand trembles in the air, the pulse drums unsteadily, the eyes brim with tears. And the final thought of humanity, whispered to the empty silence of eternity, left to ring into the abyss of space and time, forever and ever:

“There’s no need for fear, no reason for worry.
The universe will not miss us.”




And so the Heavens struck down the last of the sinners,
and the world was emptied of their folly.