Foraging for the Future
by Dee Artea
I’m writing in this blank notebook that I found under much rubble, along with a box of brand-new HB pencils that I sharpened with a tool I made from some bones of an unknown animal, when I was foraging for something to eat. It’s the start of what I guess will be a diary or journal or something like that.
Of course, diaries usually start with a date for each day of notes but, as you see, I didn’t. Everything above my first paragraph on this page, starting with “I’m writing...” is totally blank. Nothing there. I didn’t write a date or anything, because I can’t.
The date at which I’m writing this is unknown since, as far as I know, I’m the last person on Earth still alive, at least in the territory where I’m living — if you can call this living — after the apocalyptic exchange of nuclear weapons that accidentally took place after the third round of the pandemic that engulfed the world after the massive riots that destroyed most of the major cities in the second decade of the 22nd century, about a century after the Covid-19 pandemic of 21st century.
I’ve survived by living in a very deep cave where I hoarded a huge cache of canned food along with two strong can-openers for as long as the food lasted. It was enough time — whatever time period it was — so that when I emerged from my cavern, it was safe to breathe the air, as far as I know, since I’m still alive. But I couldn’t keep track of time in the cave. You see, there was no day and night. It was lamp black in that cave, and so I lost my sense of time.
Even now, I spend my days — if you can call these “days,” too — mainly foraging for food and doing nothing much else. Sometimes at night and sometimes in the day, but it’s hard to tell the difference. The air is filled with constant light-yellow ochre smog that blocks out the sun, making the day seem to be an unwavering twilight. At night there’s a constant glow in the sky from massive fires ever burning, making the night likewise lit up with a sky of burnt sienna, and so the night seems like unwavering dawn. Or maybe it’s the other way around?
Incidentally, you may have noticed that I think in terms of pigment colors. I was an amateur painter and an Art History teacher in my former life. Unfortunately, I have no brushes or paints to depict what I see before me, although it’s all so bleak that I’m not really missing the task. Even if I did, my paintings would probably look like Ad Reinhardt’s works, except the colors would be sienna and ochre. So, I’m writing instead of painting.
As I said, I’ve lost my sense of time, since there’s little to no difference between night and day, almost as if I were still in the cave. As a result, I just sleep anytime I’m tired. Also, since there’s no difference between this day and the next— or the last — I can’t keep track of a week or a month and, finally, I have no idea what year it is anymore.
I should point out that being the only person left in this place has its advantages, under these circumstances. I have no fear of being found or hurt by another person for — let’s say — fighting over food, which is extremely scarce. This is especially important for me as a lone woman. Like, really alone! I’m not afraid to wander around day or night — of course, there’s little difference — by myself, since that’s all there is, namely me.
As well, I believe all large animals are dead, so there’s no fear of some beast attacking me. Although occasionally I think I hear noises coming from a far distance, but I’m sure that’s just the crackling sound from the fires that are continually burning.
Therefore, only small bugs and such have survived, and I eat them as a source of protein. In the cave, I grabbed them as they scurried across my body, not knowing what they were. Still, I smashed them with a rock before mixing them in with my canned food. Now I see them, but the hunger overrides any unease I may feel for eating such otherwise repugnant critters.
So here I am, sitting near a cave on a hill looking over a vast expanse of a flat plain of burnt — literally and figuratively — umber, and writing my first entry in this otherwise blank notebook. I plan to do this episodically until the end, although I don’t know what an end would mean. If that happens, whatever it is, I will put this notebook in a heavy plastic folder that I also found in the rubble; and I’ll bury it in the deep hole next to my cave and roll a large rock over it. Hopefully it will be found eons into the future.
If I do that, and my notebook with all my entries is found eons of time later, and someone reads it, what would that mean? Well, come to think of it, you are looking at it right now. You, who I assume are living in that far, far distant future, and looking at this document from ages ago. Yes, you have found my treasure.
I guess that to you it’s a mysterious document from the past, like maybe the Dead Sea Scrolls were in the 20th century; that is, something for scholars to ponder over for years, although I’m sorry if this isn’t quite as profound as that document was. Plus, I don’t even know if mine is going to be interesting at all. Yet it would be some consolation to know that all this foraging and pain was not entirely in vain.
But let’s be realistic: this is only a fantasy of mine, for, you see, I merely intend to write about my life, pathetic as it is, scrounging for something to keep me alive.
Forage for food, eat, write in diary, sleep.
Forage for food, eat, write in diary, sleep.
Forage for food, eat, write in diary, sleep.
And so it will go, I suspect. No fights with wild animals. Or fighting off wild men. Great for me. Not so good for any future reader of my story.
But wait. Even before all that, who are you? For example, you could be an alien creature who has landed on Earth eons into the future, and, even if you found my diary, the above will look to you like:
wshe grt dqdiole, doi, vijf jk ghvhgo, njnottos
wshe grt dqdiole, doi, vijf jk ghvhgo, njnottos
wshe grt dqdiole, doi, vijf jk ghvhgo, njnottos
So what’s the point? Not very communicative, is it?
Of course, I could be wrong. Somewhere on this planet, other humans may have survived like me and will propagate our race again. If so, then at some time in their future, my diary might be found. And therefore you may know how to read this. That is, if all traces of the English language haven’t completely disappeared. Well, let me just assume that you’ve found this and can read it, somehow. Now what?
Well, if I die before burying it, it will rot from the weather and never be found. But then, if you are reading this then that didn’t happen. It means that I did bury it. But when? I will not know this until I decide sometime in the future — whatever and wherever that future is — to stop writing this and just bury it. But you know this already, since you’re reading this at what is “now” for you, and so you can just flip to the end where I make my last entry, and you’ll know how many entries I made in this journal, although I don’t know anything about that now, for “now” to me is right here where I am writing, and everything further is blank, yeah, blank. See what I mean? I hope this makes some sen...
Oh my God, what’s that noise in the distance? Oh, God. Oh no! I’m not alone. There’s a large pack of fierce-looking dogs or wolves or I don’t know what they are, prowling across the plain. Oh, this is worse than I ever imagined. They’re too far away to see me but, this is bad, really bad. This means that there are probably more vicious animals alive. I believe I’m doomed.
I just saw some wild animals on the plain below me. I don’t believe this. I alone can’t defend myself. What other animals are still alive? Ah, I have no way of defending myself. Eventually I’ll be found... Oh, God, I’m really doomed.
If this fragment of a notebook of my post-apocalypse existence is going to survive, I will have to bury it, and fast. Only you will know if I succeed in burying it in time.
What a nightmare! I just got started, didn’t even finish my first entry in the diary.
I am Dee Artea. Or really, my name was Dee. It would be some comfort to know that you’re reading this. Oh my God, I just realized, that what will be left of me are just these Dead Dee’s Scrawls!
I guess there’s something to be said for dying with a sense of humour. still... God... Help... Me... THE END
Come on, diary — the only remnant of my existence — let’s go and bury you before it’s too late. Will I make it? It sounds like that pack is getting closer.
Let me clear out this hole a bit more and get the folder... here in my cave under these rocks and... put the diary in the folder, wrap it all up, and now drop it in the hole... And let me push that large boulder over the hole... like... this... and... done! My remnant for posterity is saved.
Humm, those animals seem to have gone on by; didn’t see or smell me, it seems. Well, I’m safe for now, but it’s not for long, when more will come.
I can’t go on like this. I should just go farther up this hill to that cliff far above the small stream below and jump to my death. It would be better than being mauled by wild animals. Yes, I’ll do that... good idea, Dee.
But not right now. I’m tired, exhausted really. All this tension, anxiety, fear... It wears me out. I’ll go back into my cave and take a nap. It’ll clear my head, and I’ll then be ready to face death. The cliff, yes, that’s it. I’ll do it.
For now... going deep, very deep into the cave... Lamp black... no light, no sound... lie down... close my eyes... restful... yes... rest... full... umm... peace... THE END
* * *
Ey fownd dis dairy wen muvin a rok n frunt uf mi cayv. Ey tink itz ympurtnt. Eyl buree et fur latr.
Frzlee Brurzel
Mrh 23 — XXX
Copyright © 2023 by Dee Artea
