the continuing story of the end

walden freeman

the iron was left on the board too long and smokesignalled for help. you waltzed until it was time to meander into a zombie movie being filmed on location on your front lawn. dead center, sniperscope precision, the cameras witnessed you transform into a distraught author who wrote her stories about fish in octopus ink. the permafrost was long gone, melted, like all our candles at the bottom of the arctic and southern oceans, respectively. the audience has never been captivated with my boring style of writing and my confusing plot twists. what makes it worse is that there's never a plot. therefore there will be no place to bury me in my luxury coffin and the tombstone which is actually just pottery made from the same clay used to create adam before he lost a part of himself inside when he met eve. it's a fitting tribute to the rest of time. prayers do not get answered.