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George (guest story by E.C.)
8.13.2002 by Rosemary, every Tuesday.


[Heya.
One of my goals with this column is to bring in some guest work. Thus, here is a tiny, extremely keen tale by my good friend EL COLE.]


George stepped cautiously over the burnt body of Aunt Martha and crawled onto the porch swing. He moved slowly, as he was unsure of his surroundings - everything in his life had changed in the last two days, and he did not want to make any lethal mistakes out of carelessness. There was a strange breeze in the air, and an eery silence. Everyone for miles was dead.

Everyone except George.

He had come in with the groceries only minutes before the atomic blast that had destroyed the city, eventually killing everyone in the outlying countryside as well. The family lay dead in the basement, where they had sought hopeless refuge - all except Aunt Martha, who had crawled to the porch, trying to get outside so she could see the sky one last time. She felt that she would be closer to God this way, in her final moment. Not that it mattered.

George didn't really care about any of them, of course. He only cared about two things in life: food and sex, in that order. Thus, he would eat the family if he needed to. They would last him a long time before he would have to go searching for sustenance at the next farm down the road. Love, loyalty, and companionship meant nothing to him. For this reason, it was probably best that, of everyone in the farmhouse that day, only he survived. Anyone else would have killed themself out of grief and desolation.

The swing rocked back and forth, causing George's feelers to dance in the wind. As he munched on the dead moth at his feet, he quietly wondered if there was anyone around for him to mate with.




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