Thursday, March 16, 2017

Microstory 539: Last Human Alive Writes News Article

It has been years, or perhaps hours, since I realized that I was alone. I’m not sure what told me first, but either way, I know this to be true, without a single bit of doubt. All my life, there has been this...sense of belonging. I didn’t realize it existed until I was alone. Completely alone. I’ve never felt particularly like I could relate to other people, or that they ever really understood me, but it wasn’t until they were gone that I discovered this wasn’t true. There is some force, some network of interconnectedness that binds us together. Or rather there was, but that is over now. Hi. My name is Not Important, and I am the last human on this planet. I don’t mean to say that what people call me isn’t important. Nor do I mean that I was literally given that name at birth. But ever since the last of my kind died—before me, of course, that is—everyone has called me Not Important. And now you ask, dear reader—voyager of the universe, uncoverer of my final message, protector of my race, and lightbringer to the ignorant—if you are the last of your kind, who exactly is calling you anything? I am the last human, but I am not the last person.
We were overwhelmed by a new race of beings. They did not come from the sky, or the sea, or some other dimension. They came from our laboratories. They came from ourselves. Some of them are bad, while others are not that great. One thing they have in common, however, is that they were not—or at least didn’t think they were—capable of surviving while we were still around. Some of them killed us, while others assimilated us into themselves. A few of us, I think, managed to leave the planet entirely. I’m not certain how they did that, or where they went. If you ever find them in your travels, oh beautiful explorers—archaeologists of dead civilizations, seekers of treasure and knowledge, mirror-holders—please warn them that this place remains unsafe, even to this day. I do not believe it will ever return to what it once was. The others have left me alone. They reject my name, and choose to call me Not Important, because they don’t think I am...and I am inclined to agree. Still, I protest in my own way, by enforcing their beliefs, and using their own insults to me against them. I wonder what you think of what I’ve written, my last words to the cosmos, you wanders—accidental understanders, breakers of probability, navigators of vastness—how are you taking me? This is a news article that I’ve written, and it is about the fact that I have written a news article, which is possibly too circular for you, masters of time and space. So perhaps I should write a second article, and have this article here be about that one. But then the headline is wrong, for it is a premonition, not a news story. News is all about the past, never the future. Maybe that doesn’t matter to you, or to me, or to the Important Ones. I think I shall let it go and live out my life. My life. In this cell. An enemy to my left, an enemy to my right. If they do not read this, who will? Yes, it will be you, the living promise that life always goes on—finders of my story, readers of my story, tellers of my story. Thank you.

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