From The Journal of Sage Abercrombie

From the Journal of Sage Abercrombie

August 17, 2021. 

The last of the spaceships left an hour ago. Earth is fading into the distance for the passengers on that ship. Everyone hoping that it will take them somewhere better. Somewhere far away. Somewhere peaceful.

I didn't make it on board. 

For the umpteenth time, I curse myself and my short legs. If I'd ran faster, I could have made it. I was so close, too. Practically beside it. Everyone on board could probably see me jump and scream and wave my arms about. I can remember the feeling in my stomach clearly when I watched the ship take off. The taste of bile is still fresh in my mouth; I had almost immediately vomited up the contents of my stomach.

But if you're too late, you get left behind. I'm stuck here now. Stuck on the desolate remains of a once glorious planet. Waiting to be bombarded with gamma rays from a failed nuclear plant, or for the earth to crack and swallow me up into a great fault line. 

At the moment, I'm sitting under a tree, writing. Yes, a real tree. With leaves. It's actually alive. The leaves act as a sort of umbrella, shielding me from the worst and hottest of the sun's rays. It's peaceful, almost, until I remember I'm destined to die alone here, on Earth. 

Which begs the question, why the hell am I bothering to write these words? They're useless. Nobody will ever see them. It's a sad thought, but a true one. 

I suppose this journal acts as a sort of counselor. It keeps me sane, keeps my thoughts organized. And when you've seen some of the things I've seen, sanity is something that's very hard to maintain. 

I've seen people burned alive in a sudden lava flare. The lava shot out of nowhere, straight up from the Earth. There was nothing left but ashes. I've seen people mauled by wild animals, their bloody carcasses left behind for the vultures and raccoons. I've seen people, friends, even my own family, disintegrated before my eyes as a nuclear land-mine went off. I've seen people die. And death is not easy to see. 

I remember when I was young, people joked about brains and guts looking like spaghetti. Ha. I've seen brains. Seen people's brains strewn out across the ground. They look nothing like spaghetti. Or fettucine. Or linguini. They don't look like any type of pasta, they look like brains.

I can remember being a little girl. Born in 1999. I was alive for the millennium year, though I don't remember that young. I remember before all this happened. I remember the teenage version of myself laughing at the thought of the world ending. I was one of the skeptics. But I was wrong. The world did end. 

It was as though the Earth simply ceased to function correctly. Like it had been a huge, complex, factory. And all of a sudden, the workers took a holiday. Volcanos erupted, everywhere. Eruptions that were equal to the cataclysmic Mt. Vesuvius. Something happened to nuclear facilities, though of course no one knows what. Every single one failed, simultaneously. Explosions, and more deaths. Thousands of deaths.

A  volcano just erupted in the distance. A big one, too. I can see the wall of ash coming. It's going to take me, and these words will be lost forever. I'm not going to run. I'm going to welcome death. And I'm going to keep writing until the burning ash settles into my throat and I can't breathe. After all, there's nothing better for me to do. I'm the one left behind. The one that was too slow to reach the spaceships. 

It's oddly peaceful, knowing you can't escape death. It's like it's inevitable. I can watch the ash draw closer, but I can't stop it. I can only fear it, or welcome it. Fearing it will do me no good. I've feared enough things in my life. I tire of fear. And so I welcome death. I welcome the unknown; this new frontier. Here it comes now. These are probably my last words. Hello Ash, my friend. Take me away...but please be quick.