Brian Stansford

We are the last two men on earth.

Brian Stansford and I.

I hate Brian. Of course my life ends up like this.

I hated Brian before this whole "end of the world" fiasco. We worked together in an office. We were both salesmen. We sold ink cartridges. An awful profession, honestly. Brian and myself worked next to each other. He didn't shower much. He was easily the size of a manatee. He constantly snacked and chewed far too loudly. He was a thorn in my side. So of course it's him that I'm stuck with.

Everything is so desolate. The buildings that weren't demolished or burned down are completely empty. The streets are blackened and stained. Most of the street lamps have burned out. Empty shells of cars are everywhere.

The decadence of man in decay.

We stay in my house. Brian talks in his sleep and smells worse than ever, even though the shower system I've set up works just fine. He rarely moves from the bed in my guest room. Just lays in there watching television.

Now that the entire human race is gone, Brian has come to think of himself as a sort of philosopher. He keeps coming up with these ideas. These rules for life. Reasons why it all happened. I think he's mad. He sounds more like Manson than Nietzsche.

I get away from him during the day as much as I can. I wander around. I go inside buildings and try to find supermarkets. Supermarkets that still have non-perishables. I look for other survivors. So far, there's no one. It's eerie honestly. The world is empty. There are no bodies. There are no survivors, save Brian and myself. I never thought the end of the world would happen like this. Nor did I think I would be stuck in it with Brian.

When I am around the house, I work on this helicopter I found. I've always been fairly skilled with my hands and used to work on cars with my dad when I was younger. Helicopters and cars aren't quite the same though so it's taking me a while. Once it's finished, I'm going to use it to widen my search for food and other humans.

Lately though, I haven't been finding food. We collected most of it within the couple of months, and there's no way out of the city since all the roads are covered with pieces of buildings or stacks of cars. Our stockpile is starting to run low. There's only a few cans left. We tried to start a garden, but neither Brian nor myself have much of a green thumb.

Once the food runs out I'll be left with two options as far as my sustenance goes. I can either starve to death, or I can eat Brian Stansford. The idea of ingesting that pitiful excuse for a human is horrifying. He's disgusting. I can't imagine he would taste any sort of good. The food's running out though, and I still need another month or two before the helicopter is ready to fly, or before I'm ready to fly it for that matter. I don't have a damn clue how that thing works.

Tonight was the night. I rooted around in the closet till I found one of the guns we kept for hunting (which neither of us ever had much success with), walked upstairs to the room where he was watching old episodes of Gilligan's Island, told him I was sorry, and put a bullet through his head.

This proved to be a great deal messier than I had imagined.

I barbecued him though, and I'm chewing as loud as I can.

I was 15 years old when my father died. That was 56 years ago.

He was 47. He was a brilliant man and a drinker. There were only a few things my father loved. He loved his family, Architecture, the art of Salvador Dali, and whiskey. My father was never violent. He never showed the slightest hint of anger. Although, he could be stern sometimes.

I remember the day he died more vividly than anything else in my life. I don't remember most of my birthdays.The memory of my honeymoon is starting to fade, and I don't remember what my college campus looked like. I remember that day though.

We were living in Dallas. It was summer. One of the driest we'd had in years. Everything was a washed out, golden yellow. The dead grass. The sun beating down on me as I rode my bike through our neighborhood. I had gone to see if my friend James was at home. We were supposed to go swimming. There was an ambulance in my driveway when I returned. I didn't understand. Why would there be an ambulance at my house? Why was a crowd of people starting to gather? Why were policemen keeping people away from our home?

I rushed past the policemen and through the front door of our home. My mother and sister were huddled together and sobbing. I still hadn't figured out what was going on. I didn't, until I saw him. Rigid on the floor. My mind went blank, and then everything started to happen at once. The medics lifting him onto a gurney. The policeman explaining to my mother, my sister, and I what had happened.

My father had been shot. A burglar had broken into our house. Upon seeing my father, he shot him.

It was such a simple death. A death my father did not deserve. Such a complex man felled in such a trivial manner.

I harbored such a horrible anger and bitterness for so long. My father did not deserve that. My family did not deserve that. It completely devastated my sister. She was only 10 when it happened. A cheerful, carefree girl became completely closed off. We couldn't get her to talk for 6 months.

I wanted to be an architect like him. I thought he would like that. I thought that would have made him proud of me. Unfortunately, I did not inherit his ability for architecture. I did, however, inherit his love of whiskey. I started drinking that night.

I found one of his bottles of whiskey and began my alcoholism. The searing of my throat let me know I was still alive and the events that transpired during the day were real. I cherished the taste and the pain. I drank myself into a stupor that night. My vision blurred and my strides became stumbles. The world swirled around me as I fell into the darkness of intoxication.

So today I am in a hospital bed and my liver is failing. I don't have much to show for all my years on this earth. I did find the man who shot my father. It was about 20 years ago. I had spent my entire life looking for him. He was an old man, frail and dying in his home in Reno. I knocked on his door and after a couple of minutes passed he opened the it. After spending my entire life looking for this man, I didn't know what to say to him. He looked at me with this blank stare and asked me who I was. I told him I was the son of a man he shot about 30 years ago. And I shot him. I left him there on his porch and walked away.

The rest of my life is a blur now. Only those two memories remain. I suppose that's how it should be.

On the Back

I wish I could talk to you like I did that night we sat on the back of my car. I wish I could talk to anyone like that. I've never been as open with anyone as I was that night. The cigarette smoke drifted away from us like we drifted away from each other. I wish you had never left the country. Or I wish airplanes were safer. Or I wish airplanes had never been invented.

I remember how we always used to play, "Remember When"?

Remember when your hair was brown?

Remember when you wore flip flops in the winter?

Remember when we watched the sunrise?

Remember this? Remember that?

Remember when you said you loved me?

Those jokes that turned into memories kept me going for a while after it happened.

Remember our first date? Perkins. We ate at Perkins so many times after that. You would always get the same damn thing. A muffin. A fruit cup. A diet coke. And coffee. Every time you got the same thing. I can't even look at fruit anymore. I get squeamish whenever I look at strawberries or grapes or pineapple, or cantaloupe.

I had never met anyone quite like you. I thought you were insane. Hell, you drove me insane. One week, you were in love with me, another you had some things you needed to work out and couldn't deal with the confusion and commitment that dating me entailed.

Every time things ended, I said I was giving up. I told myself, every time, I was never going to speak with you again. I was done. But somehow, every single time, I would go back to you. You would come back to me.

"Somehow, after all that's occurred between us, we're still in each other's lives. That means something, and I don't ignore things like that".

Remember when you said that to me?

You wanted to see the other side of the ocean so badly though. You wanted to start a new life. I just wanted you.

Remember when we wandered around that 3 story antique store? I think we were there for 5 hours. All I wanted was a cigarette case and they didn't even have them.

Remember all those sleepless nights we would spend on the phone? Talking and talking. You had so much to say and I wanted to soak up every bit of it. I would give anything to talk to you now. To be on the back of my car again. Why can we not go back? Why is there no rewind? Why is there only fast-forward?

Remember the first time we kissed? In the parking lot of that book store? It was just starting to get cold and the wind was blowing the leaves around our feet.

I begged you not to leave. I begrudgingly took you to the airport, pleading with you the whole way not to go. You kissed me at the gate for the last time and got on that plane. You promised me you would be back soon. You needed this experience. I just needed you.

I wish you had never left. I wish your flight had been delayed. I wish airplanes had never been invented.

I wish you had stayed.

A Dream Upon Waking

I'm sitting on my front porch smoking the last of my cigarettes and watching the sunset. I'm wondering where my life has gone. When I was a child, I had dreams and aspirations. I wanted to be an astronaut, an engineer, a chemist, or an architect. I am none of these things. One of the only things I accomplished that I hoped to achieve when I was younger was marrying. And even that didn't last very long. She died after 10 years of marriage. We didn't have any children. She was lovely though. Flowing brown hair and the biggest brown eyes you've ever seen. Her skin was softer than anything I ever laid my hands on. She didn't like me smoking though. I smoke all the time now. I'm hoping the cancer gets me soon. I'm weary.

I wake up every morning at 6 to make my coffee. Coffee may be the only thing that keeps me alive at this point. I drink about 20 or 30 cups every day. I had a teacher in high school that drank this much coffee and I always wondered how she survived drinking it so often, but now I understand. Eventually the coffee becomes what sustains you. Without it she and I would just wither away. She probably has by now.

After coffee, I eat my breakfast: bacon, toast, eggs, and occasionally a waffle. I eat this every day. I eat and read the paper. I then proceed to get in my car and drive to work. I work in an extremely cramped cubicle. I crunch numbers all day long. My cubicle doesn't accommodate my extremely long legs. I am 6 feet and 7 inches tall. I have arthritis in my knees because of the way I have to sit. I hate my job with everything that I am.

I am completely and utterly unhappy with my life.

So I'm sitting here thinking, God please just let this be the last thing I ever see. This sunset. This is the only beautiful thing that I have left and it's fading. Soon this sunset will be gone and I hope I am too. I know there's a bottle of sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet, but I don't have the courage to face my own death like that. This world hasn't taken all my hope away. Not in that way. As much as I hate the majority of my existence on this empty shell of a planet, I still go to bed hoping that tomorrow will be better. So that is what I'll do tonight. I will crawl into my twin sized bed, watch the news, and hope.

I woke up today feeling different. I couldn't decide if I liked it. I went through my usual morning routine. Shower. Coffee. Clothes. Coffee. Brush teeth. Coffee. Breakfast. Coffee. Then I went to check my mailbox. I don't usually check my mail. I just don't receive much post. That red flag was up in the air though. I'd seen it through my window. I opened my front door and trudged through my overgrown lawn to the mailbox. I opened it expecting a book of coupons or a magazine. It was a letter from my bank explaining that I had reached the maximum deposit amount on my checking account, and that I would have to upgrade or I wouldn't be able to deposit any more money. I hadn't really kept up with my bank account for last 20 or so years. The letter didn't have any sort of statement on it, which I thought was terribly inconvenient. I decided to take care of it after work.

Work droned on and on and on. This bank issue intrigued me to the point of madness. The clock was laughing at me. Occasionally, it would just stop. At about 3 I walk in to my boss' office and inquire if I could leave a bit early since I had some affairs I had to attend to. He just looked at me. I walked back to my desk.

3:30

4:00

4:23

4:47

4:54

5:00

Rapture.

At the bank the woman behind the counter tells me I have 500,000 dollars saved up. I tell her, no. That must be a mistake. She shows me the computer screen with my account displayed. I'm reeling. This is completely and utterly impossible. My job does not pay well. She assures me the amount is correct.

I tell her I want all of it.

"All of it?"

"Every single last penny."

The next day I quit my job. I destroy my cubicle and tell my boss that he's one of the most downright awful people I've ever come across. To cap things off, I socked him pretty good, right to the jaw. I think I broke it. Security escorts me out. I suppose I could have left with a bit more dignity, and this type of behavior really isn't all that respectable for an adult, but what do I care? I have half a million dollars. I'm half a millionaire.

From here, I'm not sure what to do. I don't deserve this money. Or maybe I do. Maybe I deserve this more than anyone. My entire life has been mediocre, at best. I have nothing really to show for it. I have a dead wife, who I loved immensely. I have no children. I have created nothing that will last. It would seem, though, that life or fate or God is begging me to do something.

So tomorrow I'm going. I'm leaving. Carpe Diem. I will be a chemist, a fireman, a philanthropist. I will be Everything. I will suck the marrow out of this new life.

"Oh Captain, My Captain"

The Trees Are Silent

The trees used to talk to me. Not in the Tolkien, Ent kind of way, but in a conversational kind of way. When we played in the woods, we would run and run and run and run, and when we couldn't any longer, we would stop. That's when I would speak with the trees.

It happened for the first time one day when we were all very young. Probably no older than 9 or 10. We were running for the first time of the summer. It was distinctly sunny. I remember this because the sun hit me right in the eye, causing me to be temporarily blinded, and consequently fall.

"Boy, are you alright?"

This was the first thing a tree ever said to me.

I was quite frankly astonished. Before this incident, I was unaware that trees spoke. I regained my composure and responded that I was fine. "I would offer my assistance, but I cannot move."

This was another difference between these trees and Tolkien's Ents; these trees didn't move. They were fixed. Solid. Sturdy.

"That's fine; I understand."

And so began our conversations. I asked some obvious questions."Is this real? How can you talk?"

"Of course it's real. Us trees have been speaking for years. Long before you and your friends started all this running business, which I just do not understand."

From then on, whenever we would run, I would stop and talk. In the beginning it was mostly just that tree, who I would later learn called himself Francis, that I spoke with. Eventually though, I would have conversations with all of them. There was Ella, who was one of the only survivors of a terrible forest fire, Rayford, who in my opinion, had the best branches for climbing, Nicholas, who told me some of the best stories I'd ever heard, and countless others. I really enjoyed talking with Francis though. He was one of the oldest trees there, and he had this one branch that was perfect for sitting. It was more comfortable than any chair I ever sat in.

As I grew up I ventured out to talk to them less and less. Eventually people started wondering why I was out in the woods so often. I tried to bring a girl out there once, as a date, and things just didn't go over very smoothly. I didn't give up on them for good though. I returned at least once a month to chat, usually with Francis.

The summer after high school, whenever I could be, I was in the woods. I think I learned more in those woods than I ever did in a classroom. Sadly, that summer came to an end. I left, but those trees remained.

I didn't return for quite some time, and when I did, I didn't like what I found.

A parking lot.

I was 30. I had brought my wife and children to visit where I had grown up. The trees were the final part of the tour, but there was nothing there, except for pavement. Pavement and white lines. I was devastated. One of the most consequential parts of my childhood completely demolished and resurfaced.

And then I remembered something Francis had told me. "You humans are destroying us systematically. Every day a forest is destroyed so something new can spring up. Remember this though, you humans need us. There will always be trees. We will always be here for you"

I thought about that. I thought maybe, somewhere out there Francis or another like him still existed.

I've been searching for 20 years now, and so far, the trees are silent.

Batteries

A traveling salesman came to my house the other day. He proceeded to tell me he wasn't trying to sell me anything, despite his occupation. He simply needed a place to stay for the night and so far, no one had accepted his request for lodging. I told him to come in and have a seat; he could stay here.

Make yourself comfortable. Mi casa es su casa. Let me take your coat.

His name was Roy.

Roy sold batteries. All sorts of batteries. Any size you could ever want, Roy had. Roy was a scrawny fellow. He barely came to my shoulder. To be completely honest, he looked like a mouse. I liked him though. He had a pleasant way about him, scrawny though he was.

I poured Roy a scotch and we sat and talked for a while. Nothing terribly important came up. At least we didn't talk about batteries.

Then Roy went to bed. He slept on my couch.

The next morning, he was still there. He had made coffee. I didn't even know I had a coffee maker or coffee beans. I hate coffee. But he's reading the paper and drinking his coffee. He asks if I'd like a cup. I tell him no thanks and continue getting ready. He was reading the funnies. He should have been reading the want ads. I supposed he was content with selling batteries.

He asked me if he could stay another night or two.

Of course.

Take your shoes off. Make yourself at home. What's mine is yours.

I came home from the office and his battery van was still parked outside my house. I went in and started to make us some dinner. Sloppy Joes. He was still drinking coffee. I didn't know how much longer I could take the smell of it. We ate. We talked again. Shootin' the breeze. I decided that Roy wasn't a bad guy. Still couldn't figure out for the life of me why he took to selling batteries though. I didn't ask because I didn't feel it was my place.

After dinner we watched a bit of TV and same as the night before, we went to sleep. He slept on my couch.

That routine went on for a couple of days. I didn't mind. My friends seemed to take to him as well. It was nice having him around.

One night I woke up around 2:00 or 3:00 AM. I could hear something coming from the living room. I got up to check on Roy. He was sitting up on the couch with the TV on and he was sobbing. I've never been very good in those types of situations. I typically avoided funerals, tear-jerker movies, and break-ups. There was no escaping this one though. I asked what was wrong. Through the crying and the coughing he sputtered that he'd been a battery salesmen for nearly 4 months and hadn't sold a single unit. Not a pack of double A's. Not a car battery. Not a hearing aid battery. Nothing. He told me that he goes around to strangers begging for a place to stay. He called himself a leech.

A parasite.

He told me that 6 months ago his wife left him and after that he wanted to get out. Travel. Experience new things and make a name for himself. Instead, he was selling batteries. He told me how he lost everything. How he was homeless. How he thought that this battery gig would get him out of the gutter, but now he felt even worse. He told me how he couldn't provide anything for himself. He fed on the generosity of others. He told me how normally, it didn't bother him. He was just doing what it took to get by. But this time was different. I actually cared. I took the time to talk to him. To feed him. He told me that he felt awful. He apologized over and over between the deep intakes of breath and the snotting. I was more than uncomfortable. I just do not deal with crying well. I said that it was fine. I told him that I forgave him and asked if I gave him some money if it would help. I asked if I bought some batteries, be his first customer, would that help.

He just stared at me.

Once he found the words, he said that would be the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him.

I bought half of his supply. I was set for life on batteries. I could power anything.

The next day, Roy was gone and I never saw or heard from him again.

Now maybe Roy scammed me. Maybe he pulled this same stunt with millions of other gullible folks like me. Or maybe Roy was a decent fellow who had fallen on some rough times and just needed a warm couch and to sell some batteries.

But probably not.

Rhahim

So I'm out here in the middle of the desert. At this point, I can't even remember which one. It's not an American desert though. You know, a resort kind of desert, where there's a pool, an oasis, every couple a yards. That's how commercial and lazy America has become. You don't even get actual deserts. There are La-Z-Boy Recliners all over the place. A Starbucks at the bottom of every dune. If you got stranded in one of these deserts, it'd be more like a vacation than anything.

Not here though. I mean, this is some high quality desert. You really get your money's worth.

I should back up though.

This all started after my sophomore year of college. I was doing fairly well as far as that goes, but that isn't the point. First, my dog dies. That dog had been around since 4th grade. Then he just up and quits.

It gets worse.

My car was completely obliterated in a car-bombing in which a terrorist confused my car with that of a senators.

It gets worse.

One of my best friends manages to contract Smallpox and spread that around for a good bit, wiping out a town in the process. These were all people I knew.

The proverbial straw then being, my dad decides to leave my mother.

I decide to clear my head, in a different country. Trans-continental.

So off I venture. Flying over all these oceans and continents till I get here. I wish I could remember where here was.

Anyway.

I wander around for a couple of weeks, talking to natives, trying new food, typical tourist activities. None of this is really helping me much. When I was a kid, I was very spiritual. That stuff comes back to you when your entire life begins spiraling completely downhill into vast nothingness.

I mean, my dog died.

So I start looking around for some sort of spiritual confirmation. Guidance. What I find, is Rhahim. Rhahim is a spiritual guide. He tells me for fifty American dollars he will take me on a journey through the desert that will revitalize and rejuvenate me.

That sounds like exactly what I'm looking for.

I tell Rhahim, yes, I would love to go on a desert journey. I would love to open up my chakras and be born again.

Well, Rhahim died.

I should back up.

Things go well for the first 2 or so days. We're on camel back and have plenty of provisions. Rhahim is telling me to bask in the glow of the sun and to embrace the mother earth. Those kinds of things. It was really helping too. Until, one night at dinner Rhahim starts choking. I am not CPR certified and know absolutely nothing about the heimlich. His face starts turning purple and I'm in shock. Before I can fully comprehend what is happening, he's on the ground and cold as an ince cream cone. My first thought is, of course. Of course the one person who I'm dependent on out here in the desert would keel over dead in the middle of supper.

This is my life.

It's been a week since Rhahim kicked the bucket. I'm out of food and running low on water. Both of the camels have left me. No surprise there.

So I'm alone. In the desert. And I'm starting to see things. And not normal desert hallucinations, mirages, what have you. I mean, weird stuff. People. I had a conversation with Levi Strauss, about jeans. That was the most bland mirage. Others included the sand dunes moving and then dancing, a Model-T being constructed, and my dead dog.

This is not the spiritual journey I signed up for. I am not rejuvenated or revitalized. I played scrabble with St. Francis of Assisi. I am not OK. I'm hoping to God that someone finds me soon because this is my last bottle of water.

Again and Again and Again

Fiction-mostly

Lying here, I can still remember the first time we ever went somewhere together. I picked you up. There was another person with us, but that didn't necessarily matter. It was really only you and me, wasn't it?

From the second that car ride started, I knew. I knew that you were someone special. That even though you seemed the same as every other girl, that you were different. But maybe you were the same. Maybe we're all the same. Maybe everything and everyone is exactly the same.

"You aren't a perfect little snowflake"

We went to my friend Mike's house. Suburbia. It used to bother me how every house was every other house, but I guess you get used to those kind of things. We sat on that awkward little couch and watched a movie with everyone. I can't remember what movie it was but I know I hated it.

We watched so many movies. Rather, we didn't watch so many movies.

I think we payed attention to one. The rest of them are really just a blur. The same movie over and over again. On the same couch over and over again. Always cautious. Always wondering where your parents might be. The same night every night.

Maybe everything is exactly the same.

Then there was the time your mom got drunk and banged on my car windows. Or maybe the time she caught us holding hands and yelled at us for two hours. The time she yelled at my dad. The time she almost threw me out of your dad's airplane. Jokingly, of course.

She was always causing some sort of trouble. I do recall her making the best enchiladas. Even if that was the only thing she made. Enchiladas over and over again.

Maybe it's all just the same. Every awkward dinner we ever ate. The same food. The same conversations.

"You'll probably have to have your stomach lining scraped out."

But I guess things weren't that bad.

I remember the running, jump hug you gave me when you came home from Seattle. That was nice. Or maybe the time we saw those buffalo. The time we went to that coffee shop downtown.

Coffee shop after coffee shop after coffee shop. All the talks. The same one over and over.

"Constantly talking isn't necessarily communicating."

I remember the first time we met. It was raining. It was always raining. You had just had that arm surgery. You were funny. It was at Starbucks. You had on that Beatles shirt. I had brown hair. Your hair was gigantic. My shoes were velcro and you made fun of me. I thought you were gorgeous. The same thing over and over again.

"Please just let me keep this one memory."