The End of the World

Yellow newspapers scatter the streets as a lone woman makes way. All is quiet, always so quiet. Hoisting her skirts up, she steps across standing water, Larvae squirming around in wait to feast. A lone siren is sounded in the far distance, Wailing pitifully through the hazy sky. It ceases as the wind picks up, sending a maelstrom of rubbish about and around, Whipping the woman’s hair into a stack of hay. 2050 Marks End, a billboard says, barely distinguishable through its many coats of soot. An end indeed, she thinks to herself, marching across the road, For alone she is, being one of few to live, Never hoping, never ceasing her life on the road.