William H. Johnson, "New Born Babe"
William H. Johnson, New Born Babe
Can a Game Be Literature?

Mark's Pages

July 9, 2004:

Mushroom cloud. In the mid-ground the Bay is boiling. A line of refugees seeks escape beyond the ridgeline.

Your mother can't make it. Old, fat, emphysemic. Halts by the trailside, sits on a flat rock. Nods encouragement, smiles. You go on, I'll stay here.

Should you stay? Your friend is pregnant. The choice is: future, or past.

You choose future. Nodding, you leave her behind to die passively, seated and waiting, as she lived much of her life.