John Quirke Darcy

The Music of the 22nd Century

I was in London. At least, once upon a time it was London. Now it was a huge meadow. Nothing really remained of the city. There were a few parking lots all cracked and weeded over. Occasionally you’d stumble on a pile of bricks or a block of masonry. Perhaps an architrave from Westminster Abbey, maybe a quoin from St. Paul’s, or even a sett from Oxford Street! In all likelihood it was nothing more than rubble from Kennington. But who cares? In the centre of the meadow stood a large, one-storey wooden shack, called El Farolito. This was all that remained of London: a Mexican bar. Nothing remotely English about it. The last watering hole on the edge of the island, and from here on civilisation ended.