Inklings 2022

Concession Chloe Alfonso Natural light streams through the window, waking me, and I repeat the words that I have repeated for the past nine years and twenty-eight days: My name is Marguerite and I am the last human. The first time I thought them I could scarcely believe it. The last human. I’d since adopted the title as my own, the first thought of every morning. In the mirror, my skin, once as smooth as glossy wood, is now fraught with the wrinkles that come with human age. Each day, willing myself to get up becomes more arduous, gravity a stronger force. But I smile at that— I am the only one who knows what real gravity feels like on a body, aging or otherwise. “Good morning, Marguerite,” a voice greets. “What would you like for breakfast?” It is the same question as yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. And I know what the next question will be. “Would you like this day to be your last?” “A blueberry muffin and some milk,” I say, raising my arms above my head and sighing as I feel the stretch. “And no.” “Muffin and milk waiting in the dining hall,” the impossibly friendly voice says, everywhere at once and yet coming from nowhere. “You have twen- ty-four requests for visitation today.” “I’m popular for the last human, aren’t I?” I muse rhetorically. But the voice is immune to human quirks such as sarcasm. “Yes, aided in that regard by the fact that real time is slower.” “Don’t rain on my parade,” I mockingly shoot back, “You’re just jealous.” “Enjoy breakfast.” The voice ends, but its presence never leaves. I savor the hints of cinnamon and blueberry as they dance over my tongue. I ought to thank my daughter again for getting me that cooking bot. I try fruitlessly to distract myself from the choice before me, the choice I’ve had for the past nine years and twenty-eight days. At first, the idea seemed inconceivable. Then it was plain impossible, past limits we thought would stop us. Decades later, it became plausible. A century later, it became real, albeit avant-garde, risque. Then slowly, more common, until it was the standard. At some point, contradictory ideas were societally considered heretical. It, of course, is transitioning to life in the digital realm. My thoughts wander the same worn path. Digital life still has love, competition, laws, and room for exploration. But there is no going back, and that scares me— The bell chimes and my first visitor is waiting for me. I accept the visitation request and across the breakfast table sits my daughter. Well, 5