The war was, like all wars, unpleasant. This one, though, achieved the much rarer quality of “quite bothersome,” and eventually, the unique “rather disagreeable.” That was, of course, until there was no one left to find it disagreeable.
Due to exactly 31 minutes of the best technology made by humanity, all potted plants had to forgo watering, and all ovens burnt their food. It was an unfortunate side effect that all pets accompanied their owners, even if there wasn’t time to mourn them regardless. The efficacy and lethality of the end was truly commendable.
And yet, by what can only be assumed to be a clerical error, an elderly woodcarver survived it.
By providence or luck, all the noxious winds avoided her home, as did all the feverish waters and virulent animals. Thus, she was left alone, at the venerable age of 66, in a world devoid of her equals and accompanied only by the pastures around her house and the apple tree in front of the western upstairs window.
She didn’t mind, of course. She barely noticed anything happened for the first few weeks: The automated radio stations miraculously survived along with the songs of now-withering corpses, the autonomous train that passed a mile from her backyard every day at 11:30 kept its course, and the surrounding nature didn’t notice much of a difference, either.
She did know of the war: She had a habit of eating her breakfast while listening to the morning report, and she did find it strange that the same one kept repeating (One that said “Advances on all fronts, the dawn of peace approaches”), but she didn’t think it would mean much.
She discovered her own last-ness when, after riding her bike to the nearby town to buy flour, she saw the still bodies of everyone who would’ve wished her a good evening.
She saw Gustave, the darling youngster clerking at the supermarket, lay by the counter he once drummed. She saw Genevive, the aging pastry baker, laying in the furnace she once sweat over. She saw sister Grace, the overzealous nun, praying inside the oversized church. It was, of course, a miracle that she hadn’t come to the town a week before, when the air would’ve sent her along Gustave, Genevive, and Grace.
It was only when she came back to her house that she realized, to her dismaying indifference, that she didn’t mourn them. Not out of unfeelingness, she did quite like them, but she didn’t miss them.
She wondered if, the next time she went to the town and saw their bodies more overtaken by vermin and grasses and mushrooms, she would miss them more. Eventually, she concluded that she wouldn’t miss them then, either. She knew herself, and she wasn’t one to miss things.
Eventually, the thought of her children (and more recent grandchildren) came to mind. She didn’t explicitly know, but had the tacit certainty, that they shared their fate with the townsfolk, especially so given their recent move to the bustling city to the east (The one by the coast; most readers should know it).
She remembered their last conversation, one meddled by telephone, where they agreed to visit her in a month, bringing her grandchildren along. She promised that she’d carve a wooden statuette for each one, which hopefully they’d keep as a pretty paperweight.
She asked herself if she should still make them. Her grandchildren wouldn’t get to see them, much less to use them (Especially given the high chance of there being few papers to weight at all). But she wasn’t one to break promises. She was quite proud of being a woman of her word, and she wouldn’t stop being so just because there was no one left to promise things to.
Thus, she decided she’d start by carving the statuette of Wilhelm’s child first. Wilhelm, himself her youngest son, had a particular liking for squirrels, which he would’ve passed down to her grandchild if either of them could still pass down things. At least, that’s what she figured.
Yet, by the time she had made this decision, it was already midday. Carving statues for the departed must wait for supper.
Rationing hadn’t been kind to her town during the war, especially so for the elderly, and even more so for the elderly who lived twenty minutes from the town itself. Luckily, she kept chickens ever since eggs couldn’t be paid with pennies. She went to the coup, which from a distance could’ve been confused for a miniature of her own house or an entirely different house much farther away, depending on how much a person needed glasses.
She took some of Mabel’s and Rigobertha’s eggs, who had a very agreeable demeanor, and headed back inside. She crossed the backyard normally, but stopped at the door. She wasn’t able to tell exactly why, but she didn’t go against it. The cicadas sang to the sun, the trees rustled with the wind. The chickens seemed to enjoy the natural melody too, judging by their silence. The autonomous train advanced on its track, weaving steam as it moved. The sky itself was a lovely light blue, with the sun pleasantly hidden behind a long and puffy cloud.
She stood there, quiet, still, for a few moments. She didn’t think anything particular of the landscape; she had seen it nearly every day of the last few decades. But she stood there, quiet, still, for a few moments longer before heading back inside.