Bad Survivalist: “Hobby,” microfiction by Tyler Dempsey

 

I’M NOT EVEN SURE YOU’LL get this.

 

They’ll convince you it’s from Earth, ancient. They (those in power). History’s changing.

 

Eventually, no philosophy (maybe there already isn’t) suggesting we were a species of action. It was politics. Started in politics. Create emotion. Reactionary. Like a soccer game. Left, Right, hobbies. The home team. Candidate most-viral on Google’s NextPrez® app.

 

Fame more valuable than gold, then data, then everything.

 

We left. Five. My sister three. “The Girls,” three years world-less in “The Pod,” hand-to-hand amidst “The Community,” creating in everyone a sense of pioneer nervousness. 100 men. 100 women. Thought we were the world. Royalty, doted over, center-of-attention, people with more time than the species knew.

 

On Enceladus. Distance made it easier to abandon. Cooperation. Literally abandon everything. Hank an under-20 “Our Future’s Contingency,” taking a pipe wrench to Lola, Community’s golden retriever. Head an open book, red bookmark, “thwacking,” like hollowed pumpkins on The Pod at Halloween.        

 

I hope it isn’t this bad where you are.

 

Attention. They wanted it. Eleven surrounded by adults talking this and that, you’re all crazy. What charades. Don’t they know it’s crazy? Why do they avoid everything important?

 

Then Uncle Jerry got cancer. Fame was currency. Doctors, with white masks withholding, scalpels The Community on their tablets following on screens, the last guy Asian getting a selfie to cheers Jerry that’s 100, we can do surgery.

 

It stops looking crazy at a point. You’re doing it. Soon kids won’t think it’s crazy, either.

 

Just know I saw it. My generation was the last.

 

It’s time for glory. They’re chanting my name.

 

 

Tyler Dempsey got to fly into space to save our planet. He got the girl. No. Wait. Bruce Willis. Armageddon. Find his stories here, or him rambling @tylercdempsey.

Image: nationalgeographic.com

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