EPTHigh Literature is about language, humanity, purple-green colored clouds, girls, poetry, joy, third century robots, love, evil tongues that give eternal pleasure, dead butterflies, marshmallow caves, swimming on velvet blankets, jumping on a lake, and everything that tickles the intellect, makes the heart feel sublime emotions, and opens your mind about life, truth, the universe, and all things bright and wonderful. It is my way of contributing my talent and my heart to TL. Enjoy!
Sorry guys if, I've been away far too long. I just finished reading your PMs and messages, and still there are maybe 50 more to read. You really warm my heart with your support and encouragement guys. Anyway, I have just concluded two national writing workshops. It took my mind off of the "The Sun Is Wet Under the River" series (sorry about that also, but I am resuming it soon), but fret not, I have written a sketch side project during the workshops (something that I encourage young and aspiring writers to do as well: always have a side writing project besides the big ones that you are working on), and I will share it with you here. So cheers!
ApocalypZe!
The End
"All you of little faith, cast the first stone." So such words escape the mouth of Ezekielle, the last one of the old, the legend, the pure. After leading three-decade THE WAR, the biggest one, the last one, the one all ancient holy texts of all cultures across humanities four millenia of history talked about, Ezekielle has one final battle to fight: this time it is far more devastating, boiling within her, extremely personal - diarrhea.
As the throngs of warriors, ass kissers, hangers on, on lookers, all chant in drunken euphoria "EZEKIELLE!" "EZEKIELLE!" "EZEKIELLE!", celebrating on top of the billions of the Unwalking (because finally dead) Filthy Dead, the Pure One quietly slides out of the crowd, sometimes in burst of awkward rush as if she is preventing some internal explosion, with matching facial expressions, as she finally makes it out and into the forest.
She immediately takes off her battle skirt and thong and lets out a massive scatological eruption whose pungence is such that one only a decades-old of infested intestine could have concocted. She breathes a sigh of relief. But there is more! Three more. By now, the forest has officially entered night fall, and a four square meter, ten centimeter thick, wet fecal matter has covered the ground around her (she is safely perched atop to rocks), on which she is the epicenter. She is weak by the legs after all the force and mental concentration she has endured in the ordeal.
The big problem now comes.
Being a clever, erudite, and resourceful warrior that she is, she thinks to herself "I have survived the Apocalypse! And. I. Will. SUrvive. This!"
She makes a leap five meters in front of her and gracefully lands onto the ground with a roll. She searches in front of her. Beside her. Behind her. Squinting. Breathing imperceptibly. Heartbeat almost at a standstill. Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, she grabs hold of two-fistful of grass just beneath her. She clumps it together into a tight ball, and proceeds to wipe her anus with it, careful not to touch her precious labia and the other parts of her sensitive femininity, as she was a graduate of medicine and very much aware of urinary track infection and other diseases that bad hygiene could cause.
There is a rustling in the thickets.
She slowly finishes off the wiping, and readies the ball of grass as a weapon, just in case.
Someone leaps from behind. "It's me!" A familiar voice. A soothing voice she once delights to when she wakes up in the morning and before she sleeps.
He pulls her skirt up and, as if it's no ones business, and without a care in the world, he inserts his phallus into her vagina. "So wet already?" He smiles. She smiles back.
"Where have you been in the past thirty years? I thought you were bitten... I thought they have come for you..."
But this is no time to talk. This is time for love. And love is not love which alters when it alteration finds. Or bends for the remover to remove. So amid the stench, they roll. Amid the darkness, they roll. Amid the wetness, they roll. Amid "everything", they kiss, and roll, and make love.
Ah, love. Sweet love.
Almost, it begins
"Sarah! Sarah!" John is screaming wildly as the night sky lights up with globes of colorful extraterrestrial light. People around were rushing about. There was an air of chaos.
"Why! Merry Christmas, love!. You are my love, my heart, my soul, my everything."
The lovely couple sit down for a turkey dinner.
Suddenly, BOOM BOOM!
John is immediately dead from the exlposion. The exhaust pipe of a ten-ton truck hit him clean trough the head. Sarah is lucky to avoid any major damage. Mixed emotions. She is scared.
Confused. And still a little hungry. So she finishes off the other turkey leg on her plate, her favorite part.
She goes out of the house. It is silent. As if a cloud of death has descended into the city. Everyone lie motionless on the ground.
She cries for help but no one hears her.
She goes to a corner and cry for days.
After the fourth sunrise, there was a low moan. Mr. Berkley, the octogenarian across the street, who just earlier lies motionless and dismembered, raises her right hand up. He raises his head up to look around. Then Ben, another neighbor, sits up mindlessly. She is pretty sure he is dead the last few days.
More wake up. And then a few more. And then still a few more.
The city is once again awake.
(...to be continued...)
