Chambered in ballpoint

Two nobodies, at the end of the world, fighting over nothing.

Two nobodies, at the end of the world, fighting over nothing.

All was ash. All was ruin. The sun had given up on being bright, and decided to cast its own grey shadow. A trail of bodies lies in each direction, some dead of despair and pain, others cut down on their path to nowhere. Not even the clouds seemed to move, having seen the end from their place up high.

There was no one to watch, no reason for anything, yet the two old men stood facing each other, at the precipice of oblivion, at the end of it all.

There was no need to speak, for what was there to say? The only tangible thing between them that remained: The desire to continue for just another second, to create a second more of meaning in the vast nothingness of ashen grey. The ash tickled their toes.

At least they had feeling, for that was all that was left.

They dashed forward toward one another, slashing with their swords in an arc, a single, final strike. There was no flashback, no images of the life they had left behind.

And then there was something. One final thing that still existed at the end of the world.

A set of sounds. Two thuds, two breaths, and the soft trickle of fresh blood into the stained ash.

And then, once more, there was truly nothing left of the dead world.

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