Post by account_disabled on Dec 13, 2023 8:10:27 GMT
This story is part of the anthology 365 stories about the end of the world , edited by Franco Forte, published by Delos Books in 2012. The story is present on the October 5 page. Finis The man came out of the shack and covered his eyes with his hand. The livid light of the sun struggled to penetrate the thick layer of dust that had been gathering for months. The wind, the last breath of that dying and strengthless world, swept the dry ground, raising other residues and the man, coughing, brought his handkerchief to his mouth. He shuffled his way towards the skeleton of an oak tree, accompanied by the harsh sound of his shovel hitting the ground rhythmically.
Tufts of dried couch grass sprouted from the arid earth like a supplication to a distant god. When he reached the tree, he stopped before the mound where he had buried his wife. He dropped Phone Number Data the shovel and crossed himself, even though he had stopped believing in anything other than all that dust and heat. Then he picked up the tool and began digging on the barren field with the last energy he had in his body. It took him hours to carve a hole deep enough in that compact mass of clay, and when he finished, he felt destroyed. He spat out a yellow glob of dirt and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve. Everywhere he looked, he saw only a desert where nothing grew anymore.
There was a time when he had gone up into the mountains on foot, when all the fuel had run out. There, it was still possible to see a few trees, which he managed to squeeze the last remaining water from the rock. But where the man lived the springs had now dried up. And his lungs filled with dirt. Over there, only death was born. The man threw away the shovel and lowered himself into the pit. He no longer wanted to live in a world covered in tons of dust, a planet of endless, dry and squalid lands. He sat down, took some tablets of rat poison from his pocket and swallowed them. Then he waited. The wind would have buried him next to his wife, at least.
Tufts of dried couch grass sprouted from the arid earth like a supplication to a distant god. When he reached the tree, he stopped before the mound where he had buried his wife. He dropped Phone Number Data the shovel and crossed himself, even though he had stopped believing in anything other than all that dust and heat. Then he picked up the tool and began digging on the barren field with the last energy he had in his body. It took him hours to carve a hole deep enough in that compact mass of clay, and when he finished, he felt destroyed. He spat out a yellow glob of dirt and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve. Everywhere he looked, he saw only a desert where nothing grew anymore.
There was a time when he had gone up into the mountains on foot, when all the fuel had run out. There, it was still possible to see a few trees, which he managed to squeeze the last remaining water from the rock. But where the man lived the springs had now dried up. And his lungs filled with dirt. Over there, only death was born. The man threw away the shovel and lowered himself into the pit. He no longer wanted to live in a world covered in tons of dust, a planet of endless, dry and squalid lands. He sat down, took some tablets of rat poison from his pocket and swallowed them. Then he waited. The wind would have buried him next to his wife, at least.