15.
Tweet tweet The canary's call echoed against the tunnel's
damp walls, leading us deeper into darkness.
We'd long since left the vicinity of our mining lights, relying on lanterns to navigate the
porous cave and its uneven muddy floor.
Where else were we supposed to go?
The earthquake had obliterated our only exit.
It was either stay put and risk starving to death, or proceed through the mountain's natural
tunnels in the hopes of finding freedom.
Carson, an experienced miner, had begun leading us from the front.
The fear of the unknown had me unnerved, but I knew we'd be okay.
As long as the canary kept singing, we'd be okay.
Tweet tweet The ceiling encroached on us as we advanced,
bringing its finger-shaped stalactites closer and closer towards us.
I wiped sweat from my brow and peered ahead.
Darkness.
Tweet tweet We walked for hours without a breath of fresh
air.
I could feel myself growing tired, but refused to slow my pace.
If my team could keep walking, then so could I.
The shuffling of our feet, the canary's tune, and the sound of dripping water were all that
was heard in the dim tunnel.
We weren't wasting precious oxygen on idle chitchat.
Tweet tweet The farther we went, the tighter the passages.
My head began to spin from fatigue and dehydration.
I needed to throw up, but I couldn't allow myself to do so: in such a small space, I
knew the scent would linger for the rest of our journey.
That canary's call was a beacon of hope.
It was my light at the end of the tunnel, a promise that the next stretch of the journey
would be safe.
It kept me - and my fellow miners - from panicking.
As long as the canary kept singing, we'd be okay.
Tweet tweet I tried to focus on the melody and closed
my eyes, imagining the blue sky above my house.
I thought about being in my daughter's loving arms, and the days we would spend watching
the birds perched on our picket fence.
And then, I stumbled.
I was back in the cave.
Back in the miserable muck of dirt and sweat.
Maybe I just needed to distance myself from the others.
Perhaps my position near the end of the line was starting to weigh on me.
Maybe I just needed to feel like I was closer to the exit.
I pushed passed the procession, head spinning more and more the closer I got to the front.
Tweet tweet I felt a sinking feeling at the pit of my
stomach at the sight of it: the canary lay lifeless in its cage.
Carson, face swollen and worn, turned towards me.
He slowly brought a grime-caked index finger to his lips, soundlessly shushing me, before
dropping his hand.
He turned to the front, curled his lips into an 'O', and blew.
Tweet tweet I understood then that we weren't making it
out alive.
14.
The deal was simple, we'd get to ask him a couple of questions and he got to ask us
a couple of questions.
A bit odd if you ask me.
What could The Devil possibly want to know from us?
I couldn't tell you.
"Is heaven real?"
I asked.
"Yes," he replied, his voice like dying embers in a fireplace, "and so is hell."
"Who goes to heaven?"
"Whoever God wants there."
"I'm afraid that's much too vague for us."
"What's that like?" he asked, his eyes perking up.
"I'm sorry?"
"What's it like to be afraid?"
A bit confused, I tried my best to describe the feeling of fear.
My explanation was a bit clumsy but he appeared to be satisfied with it.
"Why'd you want to know that?"
I asked.
"Because when God made me, he didn't give me the ability to feel fear.
I can't feel lots of things."
"What can you feel?"
"Pain."
I got us back on track.
"Can you elaborate on your answer from before?
About heaven?"
"Of course.
Heaven is open to all of God's creations, whatever they do."
I breathed a sigh of relief.
When I was called in, the people in charge told me that my primary objective was to secure
information on how humanity could get to heaven.
With that sorted, anything else I gathered was a bonus.
"Are you going to heaven too?
Since you were created by God," I asked.
"I could, but I won't," he replied.
"Why?"
"Because I committed the most egregious sin.
I did something only God was supposed to do."
"What's that?"
"I tried to create angels.
They didn't work out.
My angels were made in my image, so I guess I'm to blame.
All they do is cause suffering and destruction, so God said they had to go to hell, to suffer
for an eternity" "You mean the demons?"
"Yes, I guess I do.
I couldn't go to heaven, not while my creations were suffering.
So I decided that when the time came, I would travel to hell and suffer with them."
"Why?"
"Because I love them."
I checked my watch, "Time's almost up."
"Yes it is."
he replied.
"I have to go back and get debriefed."
I said, preparing to leave the facility.
"They'll be ecstatic when they get the good news."
"And what might that be?"
"That no matter what we do, we're going to heaven."
"But you're not, or anyone else for that matter."
"But," I said, my voice wavering, "You said…"
"Yes, I know what I said my child.
But you're not one of God's creations," he said with a tone I would mistake for sadness
if I didn't know better, "You're one of mine."
13.
There was a car accident.
A bad one.
I was unharmed, but my wife died on impact.
My son, Cam, made it out alive.
I guess you can call it alive.
He was pinned by a piece of metal through his groin.
Someone at the hospital said it was a miracle he didn't bleed out.
I would've believed them if he didn't burn while he was pinned.
Trapped in the backseat, watching the flames come toward him, Cam's skin started to blister.
He screamed and screamed.
Some of it was unintelligible, but a good portion was him begging me to help.
I couldn't reach him.
So, I watched him burn.
His skin steamed as the moisture inside boiled.
His hair ignited in a white flash, burning off in seconds.
The clothing was next.
It was cotton, so it went quickly enough, but his sneakers smouldered and melted, coating
his feet with molten artificial material.
I didn't hear the fire trucks arrive.
Firefighters pushed me to the side as they doused the car and its occupants with flame
retardant foam.
Cam had lost consciousness, but I'd just assumed he was dead.
When they found a pulse and sawed open the car to get him out, I couldn't comprehend
how he'd survived.
But I felt something like joy.
I rode with him in the ambulance to the hospital.
It was while he was in the burn unit having 90% of his skin debrided that a nurse told
me how lucky he was.
It's three years later and Cam is 14.
His body is a perverse canvas of skin grafts and amputations.
His arms and legs were burned to the bone and had to be removed.
While in the burn ward, a staph infection developed in his lower jaw, which also had
to be amputated.
His tongue and teeth were taken from him, too, and a large flap of skin was sewn from
his chest to the area right below where his nose used to be.
Now his neck is forever craned downward.
His eyes were unscathed, though.
He had the presence of mind to cover them with his hands before they could be destroyed
by the fire.
Must be that luck they said he had.
Now I can feel the heat of his glare whenever I'm nearby.
It's as if he wants to tell me something.
But that's supposed to be impossible.
He hasn't demonstrated the ability to communicate at all since the accident.
I know differently.
I think he's just biding his time.
For what, though, I'm too frightened to imagine.
But the signs are there.
Every day, I have to remove the charred carcasses of birds and squirrels from the area of the
yard that Cam can see from his propped-up position in bed.
I keep thinking back to how he must have felt as I watched him burn.
His glare tells me he hasn't forgotten.
12.
I like wearing my mother's shoes.
They make me feel special.
They're thin and sleek with narrow stiletto heels and a little bow at the front.
My feet get a little sweaty in them because they're made of real leather, but that's
part of their charm.
They're high-quality, and that's why they're mother's favorite pair.
Father doesn't like me wearing my mother's shoes.
He says it's not right for a man to do.
The first time he found me strolling through mom's closet wearing them, he gave me the
belt.
He told me what I was doing was inhuman.
He made me put them back while he screamed at me for hours.
He didn't even try to understand how special they made me feel.
Mother likes me wearing her shoes.
She smiles peacefully at me when I borrow them.
She never scolds me like father does.
She doesn't worry I'll stretch the leather or judge me for my quirks.
Wearing her shoes makes me feel closer to her.
It makes me feel special.
I don't care how many times father takes them away from me and hides them in mother's
grave, I'm still going to dig them back up and wear them again.
11.
Anya was sitting in the institution's sunroom when it suddenly lived up to its name.
Outside, the gray clouds parted, and as a warm shaft of light caressed her face, she
remembered something.
Something very important.
"Depression stinks," she said.
The words must have been magic, for all at once it seemed like a curse had been lifted
from her slumping body.
Fate was now hers to command, and with her newfound power Anya made a decisive choice:
she chose to not be depressed.
The thin blanket covering her legs slid to the floor as she stood up from the couch and
looked around.
It was a beautiful day.
How had she not noticed before?
The gray clouds had moved on, and beyond the half-open windows lay the vivid greens and
blues of spring.
She inhaled deeply, filling her nose with the scents of flowers and the earthy tang
left by the passing rain.
From behind her, she heard the soft strains of music coming from the radio Nurse Bexley
kept at her desk.
It was the sweetest song Anya had ever heard.
Something about young love?
Well, whatever the words, the tune was absolutely lovely.
She stepped away from the couch, almost bouncing as she roamed around the sunroom seeking human
interaction from the other occupants.
She ruffled Wallace's frizzy hair.
She danced with Nancy, twirling her around and around and giggling when she lost a slipper.
She noticed the chess game Roger was playing with himself and immediately saw an excellent
move which had not occurred to the intensely frowning man.
Plucking up the little castle, she leapfrogged it all the way across the board.
"King me," she said.
Afterwards, she tried chatting with Nurse Bexley, but the stubborn woman only grunted
in annoyance while continuing to flip through a magazine.
Obviously her world was still gray.
To Anya, however, everything was as colorful as a cherished childhood memory.
Then she felt a tap on her shoulder and she spun around, grinning, right into the arms
of Dr. Margrave.
Dr. Margrave was grinning, too.
But his grin was a hungry one.
Anya's face fell as more memories came flooding back.
"You," she said, her voice lowering to a whisper.
"You suck the sunlight from the world."
Dr. Margrave pretended to be hurt.
"Come now, Anya," he said.
"I am merely doing my job.
You require care, and I care for all my patients."
That much was true.
But it wasn't the whole truth.
Dr. Margrave cared for his patients like farmers cared for their livestock.
He needed them.
He needed their ups and downs, their positives and negatives.
They were his batteries.
And so, Anya's world turned gray again as Dr. Margrave took her hand and led her back
to the couch.
This institution, she realized, provided the perfect camouflage for a creature who fed
off emotions.
But the thought quickly slipped away, and soon she was too depressed to worry about
it.
10.
"So what's your specialty?"
I drifted in this limbo that I assumed was purgatory, pondering the man's question.
"Specialty?
What do you mean?"
"You know, your specialty.
What you devoted your life to.
Was it communication?
Human rights?
Feeding the poor?
What?"
I thought back on my life, spent drifting aimlessly from one job to the next, making
no special connections, engaging in no particular hobbies.
"Um…
I don't think I have a specialty."
The man looked at me in shock.
"You don't have a specialty?
Don't you know what that means?"
Fear gripped my throat in an iron vice.
"No… what?"
He shook his head sadly.
"It means you have to do it all over again.
9.
After several hours of cold calls I was able to step outside for a cigarette.
We weren't allow to smoke in front of the call center, so I had stepped out back.
The December air was cold.
In between puffs I could see steam forming from my breath as clearly as the smoke itself.
I allowed myself to be entertain by this distraction for a brief moment.
I turned to flick my cigarette in the storm drain when I noticed a pair of eyes staring
at me from below.
I stood there locked in its gaze.
Its blue eyes seemed to glow in the darkness that surrounded them.
I felt the heat on my finger as the cigarette cherry burned close to my finger and snapped
out of it.
One of the girls I worked with walked past me.
A black hand shot from the storm drain and grabbed her by the ankle.
She screamed loudly as she was pulled through the small metal opening.
Loud sounds of teeth tearing into flesh and bones snapping filled my ears.
After a moment that could have been anywhere from a few seconds to an hour the blue eyes
returned and stared intently into mine.
I slowly backed away and darted inside.
A few of my coworkers were headed out for a smoke.
I could hear their muffled screams as I continued down the hall and back to my cubicle.
I'd always wanted to quit.
It's safe to assume I won't be stepping out back anymore.
8.
It's a little-known fact that the act of scratching releases dopamine into your system.
This means that every time you scratch an itch, you're not just relieving a discomfort:
you're making yourself feel better.
It's no surprise, then, that some people can take it a little too far.
Craig had an awful itch that needed to be scratched.
His short fingernails desperately dug along flesh, hoping to alleviate the horrid sensation
tinkling inside of him.
Scratch scratch scratch.
Aaaah, it felt so good.
Scratch scratch scratch.
He broke the skin.
Blood began to trickle out, but his fingers had not yet reached the spot nagging him.
Scratch scratch scratch.
Dopamine seeped into his system, filling him with a pleasant sense of relief, though not
enough to stop him quite yet.
Scratch scratch scratch.
No, he couldn't stop, not even after he made it through all the layers of skin, and to
the muscle tissue: the itch ran deeper.
Scratch scratch scratch.
He could see something white just outside of his reach.
There was no going back now.
The itch was so strong.
He needed to scratch that white form hiding under the muscles.
Scratch scratch scratch.
His fingertips finally reached the femur's bony surface.
The itch was gone, and Craig let out a sigh of relief.
It felt so good.
He had all the pleasure of scratching an itch, without any of the pain.
Just as Craig thought he was finally done, he felt another itch right behind the eye.
His bound victim thrashed and screamed in panic as Craig's bloody finger approached
his face.
He couldn't help it: it was an itch he needed scratching.
7.
I hate fake people.
My dad says it's hard for me to relate to them, considering I was "built perfectly,"
but I still don't understand why anyone would want to pretend they're someone they're not.
Sure, we all put on a face at work or out and about on the town, but that's not what
I'm talking about.
I'm talking about the ones who never reveal their true selves.
I know many of us can't handle opening up to someone easily.
But again, that's not what I'm talking about.
Even the shut-ins open themselves every so often, whether it be to a cat, dog, or even
God.
And I think that's beautiful.
It's the kind that 'supplement' themselves with all kinds of things to fit in.
No, not alternative people with their tattoos and piercings.
They're working towards expressing their true selves to the fullest extent, and I thoroughly
applaud that.
But those bimbos out there with their plastic noses and cartoon tits?
It disgusts me to the core.
They're already using fake personalities they picked up to fit in with the rest of the pretenders,
and now they've ruined the bodies God gave them just to look more like a carbon-copy
replica of their friends.
Who was the first, I often wonder, that they're all trying to be?
As bad as they are, I find it somewhat easier to overlook them than the rest.
They're too simple to understand that all things happen for a reason.
My dad taught me that, how God has a plan for us all and it's despicable that anyone
would choose to go against their destiny.
And yet, people do, beyond changing their face and chest to better fit the mold.
Amputees attach fake arms.
Burn victims wear the skins of others.
And cancer survivors augment themselves to pretend they're still whole.
It sickens me.
I'm sure you think I'm awful, but hear me out.
I hate fake people because I think everyone should embrace God's way.
Embrace themselves, their path, and what life has taught them.
Wear injuries and pain with pride that you have survived so much!
But no.
You'd rather pretend, slap the man upstairs in the face.
Ignore what has been given to you, cover it all up with makeup and a smile so your friends
won't have to accept you for who you've become, even when they've got their own scars they're
covering up.
Oh how I wish I could say I've come up with some way to make everyone understand my perspective.
Well, the perspective I had, anyway.
See, I was in a minor accident recently.
And before you say "ha!"
I didn't need surgery or any of that plastic nonsense.
It was a simple trip down the stairs, nothing more than a few bruises here and there I fully
intend to wear with pride.
The thing that messed with my beliefs when I finally landed?
When a glass eye popped out of my head.
6.
My daughter found an old dumbwaiter in her closet.
I never even knew we had one.
It led down to the basement, but apparently the compartment got bricked up before we moved
in.
She was pretty disappointed when I told her I wasn't going to break down the wall and
make the thing functional again.
She wanted to send me little presents from her room while I was watching the game in
the basement.
Still, she liked hanging out in her closet and pulling the thing up and down.
I figured there were worse things she could find interesting.
One weekend, the girls were playing in their room.
They were using the dumbwaiter, as always; sending one of their dolls down, making up
a little story, and then "rescuing" it.
I heard a little bump when the kids accidentally hit the bottom of the shaft with the dumbwaiter
compartment.
Then they pulled it back up.
The the youngest one screamed.
I didn't flinch.
They're 4 and 7.
They're always screaming.
But then her sister started in.
My wife and I ran upstairs and the girls were backed up against the far side of the wall
wailing and crying.
I tried to ask them what was wrong but they were inconsolable.
The older one pointed at the closet.
I went inside and looked.
Inside the dumbwaiter compartment was their pet hamster, only really, really messed up.
Its eyes were expelled from its sockets and all its guts were pushed out its backside
in gristly tangles of rodent offal.
My wife tried to comfort the girls and they'd finally stopped screaming.
They kept saying they never put the hamster in the elevator (that's what they called
it) and he never left his cage.
We didn't bother to chastise them for lying at that point - they were obviously too upset.
My mind was elsewhere, though.
I was trying to figure out what the hell happened to that hamster.
It was inside the compartment, so it couldn't have gotten crushed underneath when it was
dropped.
It almost looked like the poor thing got put in a vice and squeezed to death.
We let the kids sleep with us that night.
My thoughts kept going to that hamster.
There had to be a reason for it.
I tiptoed over the kids' sleeping bags and went in their room.
I quietly worked the dumbwaiter up and down.
On the third trip down, I felt the rope shudder when I accidentally struck the bottom.
I hoped I didn't wake anyone up.
I carefully pulled it back up.
I thought it had gotten caught on something; it was heavier than it should have been.
I gradually got it back to the top without making any more noise and locked the braking
handle and opened the door.
The empty eye sockets of my youngest daughter gaped at me as she tumbled out of the dumbwaiter,
her entrails sliding out after her.
5.
It began like most any change, with a near-death experience.
A motorcycle accident, actually, but please refrain from repeating everything I've already
heard before.
Trust me, I won't be getting on one ever again - I've paid dearly enough for that lesson.
I first mistook them for hummingbirds, the flittering little beasties, but it didn't
take long for me to get a closer look.
When you live on the edge of a city, you're not too accustomed to seeing hummingbirds
flying around nearly everywhere you look.
Much less in packs.
I was house-bound for several months during my recovery, which gave me more than enough
time to examine them.
What interested me most is how they always seemed to be searching for something - something
they never seemed to be able to find.
Fun fact though, bird feeders don't draw them any closer - but blood sure does.
I found out the hard way, basically ignoring my instructions and letting my dumbass think
I knew better than my doctors.
Walking didn't work well for me, and I wound up cutting my hand on a brick wall on my way
down.
Almost immediately, one of the pixies on the fringe of a smaller pack snapped its crooked
little neck and gunned for the wall.
I almost thought it would hurt itself like a bird flying into a window, but it landed
perfectly, sniffing and touching the tiny bit of blood with the utmost focus.
It danced around it for a few moments before eagerly licking it up with a barbed black
tongue, briefly looking around as though to make sure none of the others noticed.
The creature sniffed the air again and eventually focused its head towards me with a ravenous
hunger.
It was then I finally noticed the eyes - smoking coals, with white-hot pupils that burned with
a sort of ancient rage.
Wounded or not, I instantly smacked the fuck out of the thing.
Purely reactionary - like my primal subconscious acted before I knew what was happening.
My doctor said hitting my arm against a wall is going to add a few weeks to my recovery,
but I'm pretty okay with that.
Because a few of the winged little monsters have been looking at me curiously lately.
I'm starting to worry it has to do with the transfusions I needed after the accident.
And I'm not so sure they're pixies after all.
4.
Construction on my brand new condo finished this summer.
Not wasting a second, I broke lease on my musky apartment, and moved in as soon as possible.
I rather enjoyed knowing I was the first resident living here: there was no wear and tear, no
smoke stains on the walls, and no damage to the structure.
The only issue was a light clattering sound whenever I used the commercial sink in my
laundry room.
I rarely used it, so I didn't bring up the problem to the contractors.
Everything else worked perfectly, and my home was as sterile as an operating table.
After a few months, I began noticing water pooling at the foot of my shower.
The drain must have been clogged.
I took to my tools, unscrewed the shower drain, and peered inside.
I could see a collection of fibers bunched up in the pipes.
Reaching in with an unfolded coat hanger, I pulled out mountains of dirty blond hair
clogging the pipes.
I live alone, I don't have any pets, I haven't entertained a lady in over a year, and I've
been bald since I was 27.
The odd phenomena got me thinking about the sink in the laundry room.
I detached the aerator, placed my hand under the faucet, and turned on the water.
Dozens of molars came flying out, slipping through my fingers and into the sink, bouncing
up and down until ultimately falling down the drain.
On a completely unrelated note: I have a beautiful, fully furnished, barely-used condo for sale.
Located in downtown Detroit.
Anyone interested?
3.
On the first day, we thought it was a technical malfunction.
I mean signals from outer space?
It sounded like bad science fiction.
On the second day, we got together experts to decrypt the signals.
On the third day, we figured out what the signal was.
It was an information stream about an alien race.
Like an intergalactic business card, or a warning.
On the fourth day, we learned about about their society.
They were a military theocracy that based their economy on the conquest of foreign planets
and worlds.
They were called the Corpus Rapientem.
They prefered capturing native populations to killing them, so they could use them in
their religious rituals.
On the fifth day, we found out exactly what happens in those rituals.
On the sixth day we learned about their biology.
Thin stick like bodies, with long slimy appendages for mouths, and deep, dark holes for eyes.
On the seventh day, we found out they were dying.
On the eighth day, we found out what was killing them.
A strange race that the Rapientem thought they had conquered turned out to be shapeshifters.
They killed and replaced the upper echelons of their society.
The Rapientem tried to fight back, but eventually they joined their serfs in enslavement.
On the ninth day, we found out that this mysterious alien race also kept slaves.
On the tenth day, we found out what they did to them.
On the eleventh day, we found out how this race traveled.
By hitching rides on meteoroids and crashing into target planets.
Yesterday, we received the final transmission from the Rapientem.
It was a guide on how to recognize the shapeshifting species even when they were disguised.
Today, we found out that it was too late.
2.
This morning, I took a walk in the meadow and came across a fallen oak.
You probably already know that you can tell a tree's age by counting the rings that
make up its trunk, but did you know you could find out much more from them?
Those rings are like the pages of a history book; they tell stories about global climate
and past hardships.
I approached the oak, knelt down, counted, and scrutinized its rings one by one.
For the first 32 years of its life, the tree had grown at a nice, healthy pace.
However, the 33rd ring was darker and thinner.
There must have been a decline in temperature and sunlight that year.
An ash cloud blotting out the sun, maybe?
Hard to tell.
The following rings were narrower and even darker, indicating colder years with even
less sunlight.
That was strange.
Then, there was the last ring, the 37th ring, protected only by a blackened and crumpling
bark.
It had an odd hue I'd never seen before: a putrid mix of mustard yellow and sickly
green.
I grabbed a piece of wood and prodded the ring lightly.
My stick poked a hole into the tree and disintegrated, as though eaten up by acid.
Out of the hole I'd made in the trunk, a drop of miscolored sap-like ooze drizzled
down over the blades of grass at my feet.
Before my very eyes, they shrivelled, fell over like dominoes, and turned to a greenish-yellow
paste that caused the same decay in all the grass it touched.
A chain reaction ensued, spreading quickly.
I stepped back slowly at first, but then faster as I saw more and more of the vegetation being
reduced to mush.
I could only imagine what would happen to me if I touched the substance.
As I reached the edge of the meadow, I turned around to see how far it had spread.
However, instead of a field of death, I saw nothing but healthy grass and the oak sapling
I'd planted yesterday.
The rings of a tree are like the pages of a history book, and I got an early edition.
37 years.
We've got 37 years left before it happens.
1.
The flag flew at half-mast, clinging to a rusted pole atop a crumbling building coated
in roots and vines.
When the invaders came, we were given a choice: fight, or surrender.
We proudly chose to fight with all our might.
First came the drones, raining death from the above.
Even on the sunniest of days, the clear blue sky instilled fear in the hearts of all who
dared to leave their shelter.
Next were the soldiers.
Their rallying cries echoed in the distance.
The front line drew closer and closer to our homes, until they waged wars and held siege
right outside our doors.
Still, we did not surrender.
Then came the biological weapons.
Yellow haze blinded brave men and women fighting for their nation.
Clouds of emerald melted their skin and infected their minds.
They lived on, in agony, until the morning of the red fog.
Their blood boiled and evaporated, covering the landscape in a crimson steam.
The worst was the sabotage.
We decided that, if we couldn't have our land, no one would.
We poisoned the crops, killed the animals, and polluted the waters until there was nothing
left, not even for our own survival.
Our children were the first to die.
Unaware of the danger, some ate tainted food supplies, others died of starvation, and some
simply melted into our rivers of acid.
The bodies we could find were buried in unmarked graves or thrown in overflowing ditches along
unpaved roads.
Finally came the mushroom clouds, the last nail in humanity's coffin.
They rendered the world inhospitable for the few remaining survivors.
Before long, all that was left was a wasteland of bones and morphed shadows clinging to broken
walls.
Turned white by acid rain, bleached by the sun, and worn by time, the flag continued
to sway gently in the breeze.
In the end, it was not a nation or its people that surrendered: it was humanity itself.
And so, the white flag flew at half-mast for a species too proud
to survive.
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