goodbye, mrs flynn

by bofa xesjum

the last man on earth carefully adjusted his tie in the mirror. he turned away, but when he reached the door, he paused. returning to the mirror, he found a speck of dust on his vest and carefully brushed it off. squaring his shoulders, he once more headed for the door, and this time managed to get through it. he descended the stairs of mrs flynn’s boarding house. mrs flynn herself was long gone. the last woman in the world was waiting for him outside, sitting on the bottom front step of the boarding house, smoking the last cigar in the world. what took you so long? the last woman asked the last man. i had a speck of dust on my vest. you men, she laughed, right to the end all you care about is your appearance. i thought it would be appropriate to look my best, considering the occasion, the last man replied stiffly. well, if it iis dust you are worried about, pardner, you are in for it now, because hete they come. suddenly the street was filled with cows, headed for the last roundup. we better get on down to the river, the last woman said, if we want to get a good seat. they headed down to the river, accompanied by the mooing of the cows, and the clouds of dust they kicked up. i wish it would rain, the last man said. and then we would be walking in the mud. there you go again, the last man said, always negative, just like a woman, right to the bitter end. suddenly they were confronted by the last dancing bear in the world, waving a tin cup. the last man put his last dime in the bear’s tin cup and they passed on. the last litte dog in the world trotted beside him. everything might have been so different, the man said, if only - if only what? if only we had gotten that contract in barcelona. yes, but we didn’t. they came to the river. the cows began to line up along it. it was time for the last roundup. the last cowboy rode across the sky. down the last lonesome trail. the moon rose over the pines. the last owl hooted. the little dog barked. back in mrs flynn’s boarding house, the last cat in the world was sleeping in mrs flynn’s laundry basket in the basement. dreaming of a world of green and purple flame, where a golden whatsit fought a red thingie before the throne of a white lampshade. a raindrop struck the dusty window of mrs flynn’s basement. and the rain began to fall. at last.