It All Started With the Owl

It all started with the owl.

To be the last person on earth is a bit funny actually. I’m the best photographer, the best hiker, the smartest person in the world. Or the dumbest.

If I had to think of one inciting incident for this whole thing, I’d blame my meeting with the owl. I’d never seen one outside of a zoo before, and its eyes tore into me with a wild fascination. Equipped with a camera and a similarly wild interest, I tip-toed over to where it rested on a branchy perch and gazed into my camera’s viewfinder. The owl hooted. I took that as consent to be photographed and prayed to whatever gods there were that it didn’t go feral before I could take the shot.

“You’re a barn owl, aren’t you?” I said to the lovely creature, snapping a photograph. “You know, I usually only photograph people but... you seem like a good model so I guess I’ll make an exception.” The owl rocked back and forth on its taloned feet and ruffled its feathers, as if it had suddenly become camera shy. As quickly as I pictured it it flew off, leaving me alone on the edge of the woods.

I turned towards my crookedly parked van and whipped my phone out of my back pocket to let my roommate know that I’d be home soon.

One ring...

Two...

Three...

No answer.

“Weird.” I mumbled with a shrug. I climbed into my van and started driving.

…

How long had it been since? A month? Two? I had stopped caring enough to count.

When I came back from my hike, my roommate was gone. So was her terrible boyfriend and all the people in the 24-hour diner across the street from our apartment, where I’d stopped just hours before for a cup of black coffee.

I found myself trying to rationalize. Maybe my coffee was spiked? It was far more bitter than usual. What about an impending nuclear threat? It just didn’t make sense. If that were the case, why was I left behind? I was only hiking for a few hours at most, just until nightfall.

It just didn’t make sense.

The first few days (weeks?) were a blur. It took a few hours of making frantic phone calls to finally make up my mind: I was leaving town. A hastily scribbled note and a packed van later, I traded the place I called home for the open road. Surely, someone would be able to tell me what was going on.

It took a few days of driving and several stops to come to terms with the fact that I was completely and utterly alone.

I felt like I’d been thrust into an episode of The Twilight Zone, and I didn’t remember how the episode ended. I was afraid to find out.

But it wasn’t just my town- it was every town! Every country, as far as I could tell. I tried everything I could think of to find someone. Anyone.

I snapped out of my thoughts and ran my 100th red light, praying that I’d get pulled over. When no police came, I pulled my van into the parking lot of some big shopping center, overrun with cars. I’d been eyeing this place for a few days now, but was waiting for the right time of day. I pulled out my camera and positioned myself on top of a black SUV, framing the darkened mall with my camera’s view. After a few measly shots I purged the camera of any terrible photos and got ready to go.

I never spent much time anywhere. I learned pretty quickly that staying in one place got boring fast. With the world at my fingertips, money and houses and television didn’t satisfy as much as I’d thought. I turned to journaling.

If there were still people left in the world, I’d most definitely be considered a terrible photojournalist.

Lucky me!

I needed an outlet for everything going on. I could only sit around drinking and using precious electricity on television for so long. I couldn’t not use my camera after it being my entire career, my entire personality. There was a tiny bit of comfort in the fact that I could be insane, which is never a good thing to say. If I was just being crazy, or if this was just some terrible global phenomenon and the people would return, my terrible photographs would actually mean something. In the event they don’t-

Well, at least it keeps me happy.

I’d always done portraiture. I’d published only mildly successful books of photography filled with page after page of beautiful men and women, each capturing the reader’s attention for a few measly seconds, before they were lost to the next face.

Maybe I didn’t appreciate them enough. Do I remember the names of all the models I studied? Do I remember any of them?

I’m awful at names. Always have been.

Memories of expressions, colors... the curls of some Brazilian model’s hair. But what was her name? What was her story? Why had I reduced her to the shape of her face and the softness of her lips?

I shook my head and pulled out of the parking lot. No use mulling over it now. She was gone. They all were. Yet, I find myself missing her, despite not remembering her name.

The thing about being completely alone is you tend to overthink a lot. While yes, I’m definitely the first and last human to ever experience this ‘specific kind’ of loneliness, I know if anyone else were here they’d most definitely agree. I’ve never been very religious, but I find myself thinking about God often. Is he up there? Is this some divine act?

What does that make me? A prophet? Some prophet.

Dragging myself out of my spiraling thoughts yet again, the location I now stop at is a worn barn.

I’d almost missed it going 90 miles per hour, imagine that!

Right next to it was a looming pine tree that towered over the broken building. I wouldn’t be surprised if it had been abandoned before this whole thing happened.

Then I heard it.

The very familiar hoot of a barn owl.

Minutes later I was pushing the needles of the tree aside, pine scratching the fabric of my jacket. I instinctively put a hand under the camera around my neck to protect it before venturing on. The barn owl hoots again, as if inviting me to come on! Come on up!

I plop myself onto the branch it perches on, smelling the sweetness in the pine-scented air. I appreciate the breath of fresh air after the impromptu climb.

“You know, I’ve never been this close to an animal.” I state, very awkwardly. “I don’t know if you’re the same owl from last time, from before this all happened, but I wasn’t as close as I am now. It’s nice.” I pause. The silence hangs in the air. “I’m talking to an owl. Again.” I groan.

The owl stares at me, as if trying to digest what I just said.

I stare back.

After what felt like forever, it turns its head forward, eyes unblinking (can owls even blink?) as if inviting me to look. It’s quiet. For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel the need to fill the silence and my head is clear of worry or questions.

I listen to the silence of it all. I really, truly, hear it.

Maybe I have always heard it. Maybe I wasn’t listening.

It’s quiet but nowhere near silent. I hear the buzzing of a cicada in the distance. It’s been a long time since I’ve let myself exist without expecting

“And… well, that’s pretty much it. You get it now?” I ask the owl next to me.

“Yes, all will be well.” The owl replied.