Carmen
Carmen looked all about. Everywhere was destruction, tattered shreds of wall coverings, broken plaster, fallen brick.
The walls about her were no longer whole. The sky was clearly visible overhead, mottled with dark gray clouds in a sea of clear blue.
Carmen, from her wheelchair, looked down at her hands. Twenty-three years old, and her hands felt different today. It was exactly as if she’d just awakened from a dream and, indeed she had.
Her legs felt different, too. Her back was straight, and stronger than it had ever been.
Something had happened, that much was clear, but why was she seeing it? Because she had never seen anything, before. She had never heard anything before, either, but there were the songs of birds, all about. Beautiful.
Slowly, carefully, she arose from the wheelchair, dropping the shawl that had covered her.
Carmen was completely well.
The world of humanity was completely not.
For around the globe, the pandemic of war had eliminated every other human life. None were alive anywhere, except for here, in this one place on Earth.
Carmen was alone.
The cities still stood, though badly damaged. The generators had fallen silent, the mines were inactive, the factories still, the farmers fields, fallow. Most of the animals were yet alive, wandering here and there and finding food, as it had been provided.
All bodies, all fences, all man-made impediments to the animal kingdom, were gone.
Gone.
The Creator surveyed the scene with a sense of dimmed satisfaction. Dimmed, because there had been so much.
But the family of man had been too deeply flawed. There was no longer hope of resolution. It had not been permitted to play out.
And so now, it was gone.
And Carmen knew nothing of any of it. She knew she was hungry, and she knew she needed to eat. She came upon a grapevine, laden heavily with fresh blue grapes, and she ate.
Carmen was the mother of the new Earth. From her would spring a new strain of humanity, one unconcerned with hatred, and greed, and desire.
Love would at last, abound.
Carmen was newly pregnant, with twins, though unaware.
The Creator nodded off, and slept.
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