The old house

Rupert rounded the corner and saw the old stone house, still, quiet; a resolute edifice, baking in the midday sun. Seeing the house unchanged despite the years of environmental damage inflicted on the surrounding environment reassured him: the old man would still be here. He pushed open the old wooden gate and made his way up the path he had walked countless times in his childhood. It had been too many years to number since he had last footed this beaten track. He was still sore from the 50 mile journey on pack mule from the closest monorail stop. Since garbage had been made illegal, the Mr Fusion buses and taxis that used to frequent the area were no longer in existence.

Crunching his way up the dirt track bent under the weight of treasures he had brought from his journey, he felt the heat and the silence. No longer the sound of bees that used to decorate the sweet air. Just the intense dry heat. A vulture leered at him from the now dead cherry tree in the front garden.

He knocked at the door and it creaked open on its own accord. A cool stench crawled from the opening. Eyes adjusting slowly to the intense darkness, Rupert picked his way through the house. He found the cellar head and made his way down the wooden steps into the pitch black. He felt the old man's presence and spoke: "I have come from the equator to grant a dying man his last wish." He seated his bag on the ground and took out the Jackfruit, offering it to the darkness in front of him. The weight was taken from his hands and he heard the fruit being gently broken open and the flesh slowly devoured. After the first mouthful was finished, all was silent, when he heard his father's voice for the first time since the pod casts he had made almost 20 years ago for a leading New York online journal about the pending and certain annihilation of mankind. The voice was deep, strong and illustrious as ever, searing the dank atmosphere like a solar torch of years gone by: "It tastes.... like the sun."