The Last Person on Planet Earth

They sit curled up, perched on stools,or lying flat at all angles across the large gym, writing, writing, writing.

The task for this week’s writing class is to describe being the last person on planet Earth. I watch them, a group of 11th-graders. There are scrunched foreheads, wrinkled brows, and moving, jittery fingers. I feel something dense in the air. An intensity I can’t seem to place.

After a while, I herd them back to the classroom, where they share what they’ve written. I hear about the wind whistling through the trees and about the overwhelming silence. I hear about the ownerless property; the sad, lonesome world; the standstill of traffic and the ghostly stillness.

Then I hear about the stumbling, groping through the darkness to find anyone, any soul to talk to, to communicate with. A yearning for a wisp of humanity, of warmth, of life. About the isolation, being trapped in a world so big. About feeling so misplaced.