The World is Ours

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He sits on a rusty park bench, brushes dirt from his one button suit jacket, and pulls out a copy of the Los Angeles Times. The paper is smooth and uncreased and smells of fresh carbon black. He unties the plastic ribbon that binds the pages together, winds it into a tiny, tightly packed ball, and tosses it into the trash can beside him.

He opens to the front page and begins to read.

The playground behind him is quiet, empty, like an old western ghost town. The kids are in school, and the adults are packed away like rare collectible action figures in neatly trimmed cubicles. He treasures these moments of silence, and he looks forward to tomorrow, when the absence of human activity will become more or less a permanent fixture.

He scans through all the articles in the paper, even the celebrity gossip columns and the sports pages. He finds these humans to be fascinating creatures, with their almost manic obsession over trivial, mundane matters. In a world so cold and chaotic, perhaps it’s their only way to feel as if they’re somehow in control, as if the cosmic rumblings of the universe are of little consequence when compared to the ability to extol a home run by one’s favorite baseball team or to sully a public figure’s reputation.

Like beatles atop a dunghill, he thinks, believing themselves for centuries to be the center of a human-focused cosmos. Tomorrow, when the Earth is wiped clean, when his kind finally reclaim what has always been theirs by birthright, they will be little more than a footnote in the history of the world.

Scattered through the newspaper like rare and precious diamonds are articles that offer brief glimpses of what humanity could become if allowed more time to mature. Op-eds that call for unity in the face of arbitrary political divisions. Scientific columns urging people to become better stewards of the environment. Even news about progress made in the exploration of other worlds.

But tomorrow, none of it will matter. Tomorrow, the slate will be wiped clean, and he and his kind will walk the world in the open once more. The humans had a good run, all things considered, but now it’s time for the Earth’s true masters to take their place on high.

He reaches the ads at the very back, then tosses the paper into the trash and rises to his feet. A meeting will soon take place between himself and others of his species, and he does not wish to be late.

“Enjoy the day, my little dung beatles.” The words come out a dry whisper. “Treasure your remaining hours, because tomorrow, the world is ours.”

He turns from the park and walks away.

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Author: Jeff Coleman

Jeff Coleman is a writer who finds himself drawn to the dark and the mysterious, and to all the extraordinary things that regularly hide in the shadow of ordinary life.

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