Post by Zib on Dec 19, 2010 14:33:18 GMT -6
A man sat alone atop an empty building. The air rang with silence as he contemplated the words he would soon scrawl on the paper before him. What he wrote might decide the fate of the rest of the world, however small it may be. He drummed the pen against his temple, suffering a great deal of writers' block.
Finally, he dropped the pen and rubbed a hand down his face. A thought struck him, and he rolled his eyes back into his head. Thirty seconds later, he returned to reality, mind refreshed. If he was going to do this, he would have to start from the beginning.
His eyes shut, and words appeared.
My name is Dorian Zibowsky. I am possibly the last man on earth. I am sure that you, whoever you may be, have thought the same about yourself recently. If you are reading this, then we must be wrong.
Dorian strolled along the center of the road. He glanced up at the surrounding cityscape. The broken windows, the blackened walls of apartment buildings, the car wrecks, all completely peaceful in their silence.
Now, the reason I am writing this and the reason you are reading it is simple: we are still here. I believe that everything that exists has a purpose, and it has become increasingly evident that I exist. It has also become evident that I am not quite like the people that used to inhabit the buildings and sidewalks around me. I am what you might call a "psychic." No, I don't know how to read minds, and I'm certainly not capable of reading yours. . .
He sat upon a leather couch, gazing futilely at the dancing white specks of the television screen. Nothing appeared. His right arm twitched on the arm rest, and he glanced over at a single die that rested on the end table.
. . . But I know that when I put my mind to it. . .
The die slid almost imperceptibly across the wooden surface of the tabletop.
. . . Things happen. . .
One black shoe clopped against the pavement, followed by another. Dorian continued along the road, hands in his pockets as he gazed ahead steadily.
. . . I'm sure you know the feeling. After all, if anyone else survived, it probably has something to do with this ability, or whatever you call it.
Now, you may not have any idea as to what I'm talking about. That's okay; I had to learn on my own. . .
Dorian picked up the die, and set it firmly on the center of the coffee table.
. . . It's all about your sense of space, about feeling an object without touching it. . .
Face illuminated by the television screen, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his lap.
But you can't just feel the subject. . .
Glowing lines formed around the edges of the die, shining a pure white as they closed together and completed the mental outline of the die.
. . . You have to know it. . .
Dorian's stretched out an arm as though to grab the die, and his hand closed. The visible image of the die disappeared, replaced by a full, glowing cube.
. . . Once you have the entire space in your mind -- the volume of the shape you are trying to hold -- it becomes you. For that moment, your mind accepts the object as another limb.
It becomes not yours, but a part of you. . .
His hand opened, and the die rose until it was level with his eyes. He twisted his hand, and the die slowly spun counter-clockwise. He then gently pushed his hand forward, and the die followed his motion until it touched the television screen. Black and white specks danced on its surface as it remained there, frozen in the air.
. . . And when you let go. . .
He let his hand fall to his lap. The die clattered to the floor.
. . . It loses its energy, and becomes inanimate again. . .
Dorian touched the brim of his fedora with a thumb and forefinger as he passed an open door revealing an empty, desolate house. As he passed the bloody yet abandoned aftermath of a car wreck, he pulled the hat down to cover his eyes.
. . . But there's something more important you need to know. . .
Behind Dorian, the damaged cars shook. He kept his hat down and continued walking as silently as before. The shaking grew more violent as he walked away, but it eventually subsided as he reached a safe twenty feet from the scene.
. . . Unnatural things still happen all over the world. I should know; I've visited at least fifteen states since the first silence. And they're growing more and more restless. . .
His steady footsteps came to a halt as he reached the end of the road.
. . . So consider this rule number one: . . .
Dorian looked up at the vast number of tombstones before him. They were moving.
. . . Never come within thirty feet of a cemetery. . .
Finally, he dropped the pen and rubbed a hand down his face. A thought struck him, and he rolled his eyes back into his head. Thirty seconds later, he returned to reality, mind refreshed. If he was going to do this, he would have to start from the beginning.
His eyes shut, and words appeared.
My name is Dorian Zibowsky. I am possibly the last man on earth. I am sure that you, whoever you may be, have thought the same about yourself recently. If you are reading this, then we must be wrong.
Dorian strolled along the center of the road. He glanced up at the surrounding cityscape. The broken windows, the blackened walls of apartment buildings, the car wrecks, all completely peaceful in their silence.
Now, the reason I am writing this and the reason you are reading it is simple: we are still here. I believe that everything that exists has a purpose, and it has become increasingly evident that I exist. It has also become evident that I am not quite like the people that used to inhabit the buildings and sidewalks around me. I am what you might call a "psychic." No, I don't know how to read minds, and I'm certainly not capable of reading yours. . .
He sat upon a leather couch, gazing futilely at the dancing white specks of the television screen. Nothing appeared. His right arm twitched on the arm rest, and he glanced over at a single die that rested on the end table.
. . . But I know that when I put my mind to it. . .
The die slid almost imperceptibly across the wooden surface of the tabletop.
. . . Things happen. . .
One black shoe clopped against the pavement, followed by another. Dorian continued along the road, hands in his pockets as he gazed ahead steadily.
. . . I'm sure you know the feeling. After all, if anyone else survived, it probably has something to do with this ability, or whatever you call it.
Now, you may not have any idea as to what I'm talking about. That's okay; I had to learn on my own. . .
Dorian picked up the die, and set it firmly on the center of the coffee table.
. . . It's all about your sense of space, about feeling an object without touching it. . .
Face illuminated by the television screen, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his lap.
But you can't just feel the subject. . .
Glowing lines formed around the edges of the die, shining a pure white as they closed together and completed the mental outline of the die.
. . . You have to know it. . .
Dorian's stretched out an arm as though to grab the die, and his hand closed. The visible image of the die disappeared, replaced by a full, glowing cube.
. . . Once you have the entire space in your mind -- the volume of the shape you are trying to hold -- it becomes you. For that moment, your mind accepts the object as another limb.
It becomes not yours, but a part of you. . .
His hand opened, and the die rose until it was level with his eyes. He twisted his hand, and the die slowly spun counter-clockwise. He then gently pushed his hand forward, and the die followed his motion until it touched the television screen. Black and white specks danced on its surface as it remained there, frozen in the air.
. . . And when you let go. . .
He let his hand fall to his lap. The die clattered to the floor.
. . . It loses its energy, and becomes inanimate again. . .
Dorian touched the brim of his fedora with a thumb and forefinger as he passed an open door revealing an empty, desolate house. As he passed the bloody yet abandoned aftermath of a car wreck, he pulled the hat down to cover his eyes.
. . . But there's something more important you need to know. . .
Behind Dorian, the damaged cars shook. He kept his hat down and continued walking as silently as before. The shaking grew more violent as he walked away, but it eventually subsided as he reached a safe twenty feet from the scene.
. . . Unnatural things still happen all over the world. I should know; I've visited at least fifteen states since the first silence. And they're growing more and more restless. . .
His steady footsteps came to a halt as he reached the end of the road.
. . . So consider this rule number one: . . .
Dorian looked up at the vast number of tombstones before him. They were moving.
. . . Never come within thirty feet of a cemetery. . .