Carousel [PART II]

Snow. The shredded pages scattered like snow. Jack's vacant gaze stared beyond the paper blizzard in front of him.

"You have to live Jack! Julie's dead! She's dead! We buried her together, remember? There's no going back! Please, Jack, listen to me, you have to go on." Marcus is too easily moved to tears. His face was a mess as he tore at the papers furiously. "The world's gone down in ff-fuck and all you do is sit here, writing your stu-stupid ff-fucking stories!" Marcus roared as he struggled with the pages crinkled between his hands.

Jack was too numb, too deep into his own world, staring at the falling pieces.

Marcus abandoned the papers and cast the bunched-up sheets in his hands to the side. He grabbed Jack by the shoulder's and shook him.

Jack's head flopped back and forth. Finally, his empty eyes turned to Marcus.

At the sight of those same, empty eyes, the frustration, the anger, the tint of resentment, and all the fiery emotions threatening to boil Marcus's brain muted. All of a sudden, Marcus feels tired. So, very, tired. He's not getting through to Jack at all. Nothing. Nothing he's tried has even gotten a spark of response of Jack. Why does he even try?

Disappointment and defeated acceptance rested bitter and heavy in Marcus's heart. He patted Jack on the shoulder and stood up, then walked out of the room without a single backward glance.

Jack picked up the pens and trudged through the scattered papers to his desk.

...

When the winter came, the world was completely silent.

The groans that the undead produces from their rotting throats, the screams of the survivors, the sound of weapons and machinery. All gone.

Even the artifacts of the intelligent race that had once lorded over earth and sky had disappeared, blanketed over by a thick layer of snow. The world was white, a slate blank again to welcome the mark of future times.

Alone in a little dusty room, the last human survivor's form seemed to be asleep. Slumped over the desk as if that head with the mess of curls could life at any time. His hands still clutched at the nub of a pencil, as if those thin fingers would animate to bring new marks onto the page.

But he will never wake again. He died quite peacefully. He held on 'till the last word, even though his sight had been so blurry that he wrote more from the memory of the shape of words rather than by the way the pencil marks looked on paper.

When he felt the last letter scratch the paper. The last human author finally put his head down and went to sleep, a satisfied smile on his lips.A page flipped over, and between the lines, a story lived.

...

The sound of children's delighted laughter rang in the air like a thousand bells in the background. The collage of lights illuminated the sky, brighter and more colorful than the moon and her stars. A little girl held on for dear life as the carousel spun, faster and faster. Her laughter rang out, the brightest and happiest of all. 'Round and round went the carousel, again and again she felt the wind tugging her braids, flowing with her skirts, brushing her cheeks, and whooshing through her ears. The camera shutters clicked, and the man whose face was hidden by the large black lens smiled bright against the multicolored carnival backdrop.

And on it goes, for time stops and is infinite at the same time within this story. After all, anything is possible in this dream captured in words. Here in this world where there is only laughter, the night remains a young and mischievous thing.

The page flipped over, but Julie's laughter is preserved in those words forever.