Civilization ended on an uncalculated mistake. They thought the idea brilliant, of course, they came up with it.
The virus was long lasting powder, perfect for paper. Poetic justice didn’t have to be literal and still they went there.
They chose New World Poetry Omnibus Vol. II as medium. Second aisle from the west corner, second row shelf from the top, second book from the right end. Chosen for its availability, the words ‘New World’, its fateful placement, and its moderate thickness. Volume I was checked out.
They were smart enough to discover the virus, reckless enough to wipe out more than half of the population, and stupid enough to not understand what New World Poetry Omnibus Vol. II equate in audience.
The virus lived for 43 days, and innocently transferred itself to willing hands. A second year literature student, her housemate who needed something to throw at a roach — the roach predictably lived and accelerated the dissemination to the rest of the dormitory, a respectable local poet, a book club president, and a theology professor.
The first generation infected were the library, the universities, the universities’ research laboratories, the hospitals, so on, and the rest was history. Intelligent society went easily, riding conveyors into the crematoriums. Whoever was left had never heard of a library.
And then society rebuilt itself upon graves. Confusion buried grief. Determination buried confusion. Patience buried determination.
History would remember an embossed cover. Black and white portraits on projector slides of freshly baked History Professors. Omnibuses were evil and heretic. Any serial work stopped at Volume I. The human body shudders over the word ‘Poetry’, more than ‘moist’. No one remembered why.
