By: Mike Giambalvo

This is my first story, but hey, give it a chance.

Prologue:

   I, Mike Giambalvo, have decided that, as the possible last
survivor of the once great human race, it is my duty to keep a
journal of my activities.
   I hope that this journal will one day be read by future
generations or civilizations, if any. Within, it holds a valuable
lesson. The cost of greed for power.

June 21, 2060:

   Today, the world ended. Literally. People stopped dead in the
streets.  Children stopped playing.  People quit their jobs.
Today, A great civilization is no more.
   I wonder if I am the last.  When the missiles hit, I was in my
basement, watching the news(not exactly the place most people
would like to say they were at times like these, but I am
doubtful anyone else will read these lines).  At first, I noticed
how they reported the talks were growing even more unstable.  I
was expecting this, so my basement was a converted bomb shelter,
with plenty of necessities.
   When the screen went blank, I knew it had happened.  The world
had ended.  Slowly, the devastating reality sunk in.  I was
alone.

June 25, 2063:

   After hiding out for a few years, I realized I had to go out
to get food, as my supplies had run out.  Donning a radiation
suit, I left my shelter.  The first thing I noticed was that
instead of my kitchen being at the entrance to the basement,
there was a wasteland.
   Then, on the hill(isn't it always), I noticed a giant,
mutated, dust mite.  They were grosser than I had thought.  I
realized I needed a weapon, so I grabbed a large stone and began
to fight.  He got me a number of times, but victory was mine for
my first fight, yet there was no fanfare, no congradulations.
   Bleeding, I ran into the shelter with the body of the dust
mite.  I ate him for dinner that night, while healing my wounds.
I realized I would have to leave the shelter, so I gathered what
I could, and left.  The two extra items that I took were a
picture of my family, and a postcard of Raleigh, as seen from
above.

October 13, 2063:

   I have become better and more experienced at fighting.  The
wastelands are now my home.  Every morning, I am dismayed that it
is still happening.
<[(EDITORS NOTE:The next few years are rather boring.  Basically,
they involve a lot of fighting, killing, and crying.)]>

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