He watches the world he called home for countless millennia turn to fire, dust, then nothing.

“This is it, then,” he thinks. “The end.”

He’s been alone forever, but never this literally.
End of existence, the death of a planet.
Such a thing to witness.

“No trumpets,” he thinks, “They said there’d be trumpets.”

He has been alive, he thinks, forever.

He was there when there was no fire. He was there when they found it.
He lived on a small Earth, a flat Earth, a round Earth, a large Earth and a small Earth again.
He’s seen prophets come and prophets go. He’s witnessed the miraculous and the mundane. He fought in wars with sticks and lasers, men and machines.
Heard the word ‘apocalypse’ every day for centuries but somehow never thought he’d see it.
But here it is.

“No trumpets,” he thinks, “not even a whistle.”

He watches the last remnants of Earth fall into a dying sun.

“Supernova soon,” he thinks.

He sighs, long and drawn out.

“That’s how it ends, with a sigh.”

He chuckles to himself.
He has been his own company for a very long time.

“I can’t be the only one, surely?”

He looks around but all he can see is the abyss.

“The whole world,” he thinks, “and none like me.”

He’s been drifting in space since the world cracked in half and the sun went black.
An honest to goodness apocalypse – and he lived.
As he always has.
He outlived the sun, he outlived dirt and will outlive more suns and more dirt.
Always alone.

“No trumpets,” he thinks. “How very anti-climactic.”



Jonathan Murray

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