Overpopulation–III. Moon

John Michael
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With living space rapidly commodifying, the other organisms voted to break up with humanity. As the most docile, least pretentious organism, the trees were tasked with breaking the news.
They took us to lunch and said they weren’t hungry, segueing with a joke. “I think maybe it was Groucho Marx who said, ‘If it smells like shit everywhere you go, check your shoes.’ And you’re the only one with shoes.” What about horseshoes? we asked, and they said,
“Yeah, but you nailed them on.”
They sent us to the Moon in rocket ships stuffed to the circuits. They didn’t pack any food due to weight concerns and justified it with promises of cheese and a bunny flipping rice cakes. When we landed on the Moon we had nothing to do. We sat and stared at the sky like we did thousands of years ago, except now day and night were each 336 hours long. By day, the unencumbered sun writhing and thrashing against an endless black. At night, the soft blue earth waxing and waning like a wink from God, comically
slowed down. Like a universe-sized giant.

John Michael doesn’t have a Boston accent. He is a New England separatist, a Red Sox diviner, and a writer of prose. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Huffington Post, The Finger, Really Short Stories, and others. You can read more at johnmichaeltxt.com.