Four Letters

W B Boatwood: July 1st 2035

I come from the small town of Tippington, in England. It is a pleasant little corner of our one-time great empire where normally the goings on of the outside world holds no effect with us; until now, that is.

My wife Judy and I first heard the news on the radio and thought it some sort of trick for a new play like that Welles fellow played back in the nineteen-thirties. If only that were the case, but then, within a few days it was quite clear to the naked eye that this was no cheap hoax for entertainment points.

Once the initial impact had sunk in most of the younger people from the town have moved to the cities; I imagine they would want to be close to others, I suppose. Having discussed it, Judy and I have decided to stay here, as will most of our friends. For us, we have decided that nothing should change and we still go about our daily business of going to church (though every other day now as opposed to just Sundays) and doing the garden and the likes. Judy and I have also decided to renew our wedding vows on the last morning; thought that would be nice.

Tom, a fellow I've known forever, seems unmoved by the whole episode. Dabbled in astronomy for a few years now, Tom has, and he says these excitable chaps with their big telescopes are probably off by twenty million miles. But the bright mark in the sky grows each day and as much as I'd like to believe Tom, I have a sickly feeling that tells me the excitable chaps with their big telescopes are right.

You may not believe me when I say this but I'm not frightened, you know. Instead, I find myself filled with sorrow. Sorrow for the coming death of my lovely wife; for the young people looking forward to the rest of their lives; for the infants that know no different and their grieving parents. Sorrow for everyone. At eighty-nine, I have been fortunate to experience life. Forty-seven years in the military dealt me my fair share of suffering and joy, as well as seeing most of this magnificent planet along the way. I have both befriended and fought many diverse cultures and I can only say that of all the species in this world, ours is the most magnificent.

The curious thing about this whole situation though, is after the first week of panic everything seems to have reverted to a state of calm and peaceful sedation, like being in the eye of a storm, whilst all around is an unnerving sinister edge of destruction. It is as though something delicate were perched precariously upon the edge of a table and about to fall at the slightest breeze; I have a deep suspicion that soon nerves will falter just enough to topple the delicacy of the populations over, shattering them to a thousand pieces of mass hysteria.

All there is to do now is wait. I wouldn't mind moving to the city, actually, for the big finale; it should be quite spectacular. But still, it just wouldn't suit Judy at all. Shame really.

* * *

Jahangir Khan: July 8th 2035

I am ten years old and live in Pakistan. My father is Imad and our town is Moro, on the shores of the river Indus. My mother died in an accident when I was a baby. Father said it was the will of Allah and we should not question His reasons. I heard father tell his sister it is good mother had gone because she would have been terrified of the shiny spot in the sky. Soon it will swallow the world, father said. People say Allah is punishing us, and everyone, everywhere will die. Its light is bigger now, like another sun. What bad thing did we do? And why won't Allah save us? It is Allah's will, Father says calmly, and this makes me feel better.

Old Bhutto the doctor has gone mad. Father brought me to see him last week to fix my cough. He was naked and digging a deep hole at the centre of his house. The dirt he shovelled out just spilled in again. Father tried to stop him, but Old Bhutto attacked us with the shovel, screaming the end was here and we should dig our own hole to hide. His eyes were dark and scary. Father rushed me from the house, telling me not to listen to such things, but it was too late, Old Bhutto had already frightened me.

Most people have stopped farming but father works on. We already planted next year's wheat crop. Imad, our neighbours say, Why worry about what won't be here? But father shrugs and says he has done this all his life, so why stop now? Father still makes me do all the normal things like go to bed early and go to school; I am one of seven boys and girls left in our school. My friends run about the streets now. We used to play games together, swim, throw ball, but now they only do bad things because no one cares. Some of the big people have strange looks in their eyes that remind me of Old Bhutto. I would like to roam the streets with my friends but I will not watch father work the farm alone.

Some people have gone mad, like they are possessed by demons. Yesterday, a man beat his wife to death in the street and walked away laughing, his bloody hands clapping an old celebration song. I hear terrifying screams at night and more in the day as well. I sleep with father now. He keeps his rifle by the bed and carries it with him everywhere. Father speaks of moving to the hills where there are few people. It is dangerous here. I hope father leaves soon.

Last night we were attacked. Father killed a man and we buried him this morning. No one questioned us and no one cared. We are leaving for the hills at first light tomorrow. At least our last weeks together will be peaceful, father said, with a strange smile. When I looked in his eyes I was reminded of Old Bhutto again.

I pray my letter is picked and someone takes me away from this place. The second sun frightens me, but these people frighten me more.

* * *

Vaslav Sikorsky: July 17th 2035

I was a floor cleaner. I quit my job last week because the streets are unsafe. It's chaos outside; they're like wild animals, raping and murdering anyone they catch. The military is doing it's best to control them but it's not enough. They don't care anymore; what can anyone do to them? What does it matter to them if they die today or tomorrow?

There's talk of a celebration, a worldwide government scheme to let everyone vent their frustration. Apparently there will be a party in every major city. I might travel to St Petersburg if it takes place. I have friends there. Funny, it takes the end of the world for our government to actually do something worthwhile for the people. But that doesn't escape the fact that we are all dead now; and who were we anyway?

A biped species that dominated the world for mere thousands of years, taking what we wanted however we pleased. We destroyed land, poisoned oceans and wiped out entire species' so we could hasten our climb up the ladder of technical evolution. We constantly fought one another throughout history, inflicting great pain and misery on our fellow humans. These battles were usually over disputes about land, wealth or religion.

As the centuries passed we developed our skills and weapons in war. We rapidly moved from throwing sticks and rocks to harnessing chemicals to make bombs; this was convenient since we could kill each other from afar. But despite all our powerful weapons we were unable to save ourselves, at best managing four letters and various artefacts from our history, hoping that one day another life form may set eyes on them and know the word, Humans.

They say there's a chance in billions for each species to exceed its most basic form, then it must develop or die. In which case, we have championed evolution, if only for a short while. Monkey-like, we took to the trees and waited, eventually leaving our protective foliage to seize control of the land. Where once we feared, we now mastered, and soon the world was ours. Granted, death and destruction before, but it was all necessary. We humans are at our best in times of strife; we thrive on war and repression. But in the end, for all our advanced technology we're no better off than dinosaurs.

I always thought I would have said, Good riddance, we deserve all we get. Instead, I'm filled with remorse. It was such a beautiful place, filled with breathtaking wonders that could both please and terrify in extreme. But I can't see that now, when I look up all I see is a bright mark in the sky. It's very big now. It's almost time.

***

Anonymous: July 24th 2035

The end of everything is tomorrow and today we are on the brink. It's a beautiful thing to see man learning to live for the moment, even if it is in his dying minutes. Last orders at the bar, gentlemen and ladies, please make your final speeches. The final night on Earth is here and we are the lucky few to bear witness.

We were a wonderful breath of fresh air. Through all our faults and flaws, dreams and expectations, after all our little neurotic eccentricities that made us who we were, we should be proud. A trillion planets in as many stars and twice as many galaxies again and we stood our ground. Nothing else can ever know what we knew or feel how we felt; no one shall again hear a diva mourn the lose if her love, or watch a painter as he creates life from a blank canvass; may we be the last to hear the nightingale sing to the beauty of a new dawn, and see the whale crash down upon the waves in a playful twilight dance. It was all ours and ours alone. Let they who come after on other worlds make their own memories to cherish at the last. Know only that we have no fear of what lies ahead because when all is said and done, we shall become a star reborn, and we shall rise again.

Peace out.