by Geoff Ross
Photo: © Depositphotos.com/alphaspirit
I turned 32 today.
At least I believe I did. I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell anymore. The sun doesn’t set. The sun doesn’t rise. It’s always dusk. It’s always dawn. It has been like this for six days. As far as I can tell. Six days.
A gray nothing covers everything. The air tastes like a snuffed campfire. The wind howls. I’m running.
About 20 minutes ago I heard it. A soft muddy step in the distance. I hadn’t heard anything in days. Not anything that sounded alive, that is. But there it was: a step. It was heavy. It was deliberate. It was getting closer. The step was soon joined by others. Their pace quickened. I couldn’t see them. I ran.
The Gray gets everywhere. On my clothes, in my hair, in my lungs. I shudder at the thought of what it once was. Of what happened. Six days ago I woke up to this world. The day before that I went to work. I clocked in, I clocked out. Nothing of note happened. If it wasn’t the last day I doubt I would have remembered it. The memory would have washed away with the passage of time. Now it’s all I think about. Did I miss something? Was there something in the news? A global crisis? A local threat? Were people anxious? Afraid? Ready?
What’s that noise?
A long, drawn-out guttural hum. “Hhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” It’s coming from them. They’re getting closer. How long can I run? How fast? Where can I go? There is a featureless plain as far as I can see. Where are the buildings? Where are the hills? Where is anything?
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
I can feel their wail in the back of my head. Like it’s trying to crack through. The air is changing. It tastes like spun sugar. Smells like a store-bought candle in a jar. It’s overpowering. I glance over my shoulder.
There’s three of them.
I couldn’t get a good look at them. The permanent setting, rising sun cast them in silhouette. But, I could make out a few things. They’re short, they’re faster than their small legs should allow them to be, and they’re coming for me. If there was any doubt that I was being chased, that’s gone now.
“Iiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”
The things I would say if I had a chance. The apologies. The thanks. The truth. There was so much left to do. Live everyday like it’s your last. That’s what they say. But your last day is a bad day. I don’t want a life of bad days. I don’t want every day to be like this one. Filled with confusion and fear. I wanted clarity in my life. Stability. Peace.
My legs are burning. I can’t keep this up. Why should I keep running? I don’t have anywhere to go. There’s no one here. There’s no water. No food. It is only a matter of time before I die from dehydration or starvation. I can never remember which will get you first. I’ll find out the hard way, I suppose. A painful way to die. A long way to die. Or? Or, they’ll kill me first. Devour me, decimate me, destroy me. Who knows what they want, why they’re chasing, where they’re going? I’ll find that out the hard way too. How are they so fast? It feels like they are getting faster all of the time. How could that be possible? That sweet smell is everywhere. It’s thick like a lather. It’s inescapable. It’s on my clothes, in my hair, in my lungs. It smells like a cupcake. I glance over my shoulder again.
They’re cupcakes. I’m being chased by giant cupcakes.
“Happy Birthday!”
Oh.
Geoff Ross is a writer, comedian, and filmmaker living in Brooklyn with a lovely collection of DVDs and performing weekly at The PIT in Manhattan. Geoff has a master’s degree in film from Boston University to go with his bachelor’s degree in film from New York University. He was trained at the Upright Citizens Brigade in New York and ImprovBoston in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He has performed across the country except in the mountain time zone for reasons unknown. He has never knowingly eaten kale.