The Last Short Story: A Short Story

A dying breed, they said. I don't know why. I wanted to believe that everything I loved would withstand the burning wheel of time, but nay, I was wrong. So, as my decaying fingers gripped the edged of the pen, I scribbled my last thought, while consumed in embers.
This would be my last short story, before my last breath. From here on out, my ideas would be but a trickle of memory in a young child's mind, unable to be full realized. I wrote like a madman, trying to scribble a best seller. Although the sales of short stories have seen a decline in interest.
The ink flowed out of my receptacle nearly has fast as the blood could pour from my chest. The bullet from my arch nemesis was lodged deep in my hear, and I knew that it would soon take me for good from the world. Still, I kept scribbling along the edges of the page, determined to write something of merit.
Had I known at the time that the no one would read it, I may have stopped to call an ambulance, but I didn't get the chance.