Edwards had an idea, his best yet, which built upon his earlier theory that people were not good stewards of the earth precisely because they were so tethered to it. They took their first steps upon it and then, after their final steps, their final breaths, they were sunk into a hole in the ground. Love the earth, everybody said, but all you could do, if you really thought it through, was love it and hate it at the same time. It was your origin and your destination, your essence and your captor. It conditioned everything. “And so,” Edwards said, “I have conceived of Extraterrestrial Post-Demise Disposal. Bodies, expired, will be shot into space. Each vessel, a casket, will have Onboard Immolation Technology: basically an oxygen wrap. As soon as the atmosphere is exited, the casket will burn away. No one will be left floating in space but everyone will know that space is the final port of call. This will take the pressure off the earth, psychically speaking, and allow people to be good stewards of the planet without also feeling a certain detestation.” Edwards was at home, speaking into a recording device. He had lived alone since his husband had died. He had practiced the speech for days before committing it to tape. He knew how to insert meaningful micro-pauses to indicate capital letters. He switched off the recorder, headed down to the kitchen to make dinner, misjudged the first step, tumbled terribly, banged his head, was dead. The tape was never heard. He was buried.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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