Subcutaneous Magazine Issue 1 - Page 22

We argued over my choice. I told her to take our daughter and try to leave since she felt they had a chance. There wasn’t time to argue, and she left with our daughter. I really do hope they get on one of the ships, but my gut tells me they’ll be home before the end comes, waiting for the comet to obliterate us as a family. I refuse to go through the humiliating interview process for my survival when the upper echelon of American royalty go for nothing but a handshake. All that’s on New Earth for a middle class worker like me is another lifetime of toil while the over-privileged sit back and rebuild their empire, lining their pockets with our toil and feathering their nests with our corpses. I refuse to fight just to be part of their herd. Everything wrong with America is on the shuttles, being ushered to a new planet as the people they poisoned and pushed under the rug stay behind and die. This planet is doomed, and I am happy to share its fate. I know there’s a slim chance this article will live on after the comet does what it’s fated to do, but I’ll take the time to post it anyway. I stopped watching or reading the news, so I really have no idea how much time we have left now that the constant doomsday clock is out of my perceptions. I like it better this way. I hope there’s more people like me out there, sitting back, watching the golden-yellow trail in the sky, and waiting to see what waits us all in the next life. I have a case of beer, a comfortable chair in my backyard, and a small bonfire lit in my fire-pit. If you’re looking for me, I’ll be waiting for the comet. -Budgie Bigelow