Their Days Are Numbered is a new year-long project authored by the collective Entropy community. It is a collaborative online novel written by the Entropy community on a weekly basis. A different author will write the next “chapter” each week, to be posted every Tuesday, following the previous post from the previous week, and following a very limited set of guidelines (that each author has one week to write the next piece after the previous week’s installment goes up, that installments should range between 150-1500 words, and that pieces should somehow incorporate a real-life occurrence, current event, news item, or other happening from that week).
Follow the entire “novel” here: Their Days Are Numbered.
The forty-ninth installment is presented this week by Jon James.
The world is over. The birds have flown away, an explosion into the sky, disintegrating into smoke, then barely noticeable Muscae volitantes and before you know the world is silent again, silent and dead.
But you aren’t.
Unfortunately for you.
You hitch up your robes and stand again, now that the shooters have left the building. There’s blood on your robes; yours, a few others’. There’s bits of brain and bone too. You’re too shocked to be disgusted, too adrenal to think to worry whether any of the blood contains AIDS or Hepatitis.
If only I’d brought my gun, you think, but as you think it you know you’re glad you didn’t because you would have been too scared to use it, too busy hiding behind a table trying not to be noticed to sacrifice your cover to take a shot at them.
They were brown, for once, and a sick kind of confirmation bias in your head says of course they were even though none of the last dozen were and you know that but right now you just need something to hate because someone else’s brains are in your goddamn robes and if that doesn’t give you Just Cause there’s nothing that could.
Outside, the whole damn planet is wailing like baby who wants her mama. Inconsolable. Strobes drown out the failing light of the nuclear furnace that propels all life, alternating blue and red in your eyes with the same frequency you oscillate between despair and rage.
The sun is still setting behind the hill, still staining the sky with its sins, streaking its colors behind the clouds and the clouds are dark against it which remind you yet again about the brains in your robes…
In Norse mythology, you recall, the clouds are the brains of the giant Ymir, whose corpse is shaped by the gods into the world. In the story, the sky is his cranium, and the oceans are his blood, and the trees are his body hair, and you know what we are? We’re the fucking maggots digging around, eating the rotting carcass that is our world, oblivious to the will of the gods.
Jon James is a writer of weird shit. Here’s a few titles: Do Gyndroids Dream of Electric Dicks?, Mounties of the Apocalypse, Art is Dead. Read samples at jonjameswrites.com or follow on twitter @spaceyjdjames. Keep being freaks.