The legacy

The legacy

The LEGACY

By DICK HANK

Many writers have tried to capture the essence of man's nuclear fate. Here a new writer, working in what amounts to blank verse, captures our imagination in an experimental--but heart-touching vignette.

The Great War ended; the land cooled; and the dawn came. The sun's red rays moved North and South, as shadows pointed West. The Eastern sky brightened white, as shadows shimmered shorter.

The last man watched the shadows move, as day began again. He saw around him rubble sent by man in progress--ended. The remnants near, void of shape--purpose lost in flaming heat. A desert made by man's great flight--to moon, and stars--unreached.

The sun moved up, piercing haze; cloudless; blueless; quiet. The brightness grew--not much at first--and wastelands showed their wares. Depression came, the last man moved, toward the peace of purpose. No friend was left, of this he knew, but man had left a legacy. "Oh universe; you stay in tact, and yet my earth is ruined. Earth within the solar womb--aborted now, and dying. What is there now to write on stone, when ground contains thy bones?"

The last man walked down dusty roads, bounded there by morter-brick. To his right a farmland once, no rooster crowed to wake the harvest. The house once white; with red barn near--was ground, and dust by cattle hoof. He crossed a bridge that stayed in tact, and looked below at floating flesh. Blood once red, had turned to brown--as did the once green land.

The road moved on, he followed course--remembering the beauty. Beauty then, but now it passed, as scent became a rotting thing. The dust moved up as foot came down, and thought he did of burning. No atom left by flames intense--no atom but the dust he tread.

"Oh friends below," he spoke in passing, "pardon my traversing. I cannot see how other roads could leave me less offending--unless of course--the road I chose is dusted with thy enemy."

* * * * *

The road moved East, bounded there by lamp posts melted. The last man walked, his shadow pointed, on, and on to city crumbled. The building there shorter now, but that was as it should be. Not one was left, that stood above--to rule--and litter lesser ones. The air moved thick with activeness, the last man knew its purpose. Death was near, of this he knew, but purpose had he also. Find he would the truth of man--his legacy of living. Men lived here, but now man walked--in search of purpose written.

"Those that come," the last man spoke, "must know of man--his greatness."

The last man searched each crater now, for treasures saved from burning. He finished this as shadows searched; moving East in passing. The last man walked, his treasure gathered; found a bank and entered it. He walked amid the roof-less thing, shaded some by walls still standing. He reached the vault, and stepped inside, each treasure found was taken too. He placed each one by walls of steel, closed the door, and locked it tight. Man must have a legacy, and on the wall he wrote:

"GATHERED HERE ARE WORKS OF MAN; THAT YOU THAT COME MAY KNOW HIM. THE NAMES OF EACH; (the last man writes,) THE ITEM LAYS BENEATH IT.

"Coke Bottles; Golf Balls; Lip Stick Cases; Powder Puffs.

"Soda Straws; Nurses Shoes; Prophylactics; Aerosels.

"HiFi Records; Cowboy Boots; Living Bras; and Neon Signs."

The man in dying took one sign, and placed it by itself. Alone it stood--in reverence--above it were these words:

"'JESUS SAVES,' THIS ONE SAYS, BUT FAILED TO TELL US HOW."

THE END