Late afternoon once again and the man moves across the empty street toward the park. Right away he sees a fat squirrel standing on the grass, its cheeks moving. He shoots it with his BB rifle and drops the body in his sack, looks around for a moment, then starts to head back home.
The man goes along his way, passing by abandoned cars. He peeks inside one. A while back, in one of the cars, he found an album with some lovely photos. Another time he saw a raccoon curled underneath a dashboard. He used to think about the people trying to evacuate, and him waiting for the imminent. But something in his genes disallowed his dying like the others. Now he peeks inside dead cars and buildings.
Later, as he walks through the basketball courts it catches him, a red soccer ball laying partially deflated in the middle of the empty court. He’s passed by it countless times, but now he’s struck. The half-of-something sitting there, touched only by the stolid air. The man goes over to it, squeezes and listens to its long wheeze. Then he drops it in the trash, even though it won’t go anywhere.
Written for Sunday Photo Fiction.