Someone told me the other day the world was ending, and I laughed because I was too drowsy for such a sweeping proposition. I supposed however there was no reason to disagree, and in that way it was a small question, obvious even. It all seems so small, newscasts coughing up phrases like “global boiling,” “permafrost collapse,” “atmospheric clogging.” A picture of a fishing boat caught in an oil current. A line to take a selfie with the last oak tree. Grandpa still says the term “global warming,” and I’m not sure if he’s stuck in the past or if he’s sugarcoating. I always decide it’s best to let it be.
When I come home I flick on only the stove light, too late for the sheerness of the ceiling fixture. I light the stove, crack an egg over a pan. Fill a cup of instant ramen with water, stir in chopped mushrooms, scallions, and into the microwave for three and a half minutes.
I flip to channel R-2 on the television and a newscast runs. On the screen is a little white speck flying with the stars and the deep black, something about scientists fleeing the planet.
Soft pops ease onto the pan and I cut off the heat. The yolk wobbles intact to a perfect orange as the microwave rings. I pour the ramen into a bowl, mix in oyster sauce and arrange the egg on top of the broth. Leaning against the counter watching the newscast, I mix the yolk and let it cool.
It is unknown where the scientists plan to go, some sources say they will attempt to reboot the colonization of Mars, a project untouched by any nation since the 2088 disappearance of the Athens 72, thirty years ago.
I used to walk outside with a respirator mask just to feel the sun, a dim glow through the pastel smog hanging in the sky. Sometimes I think the smog might disperse, but it only swells back, dust pebbles raining in its wake. I remember a speck puncturing a man’s windshield on the corner of 33rd. He got out, said, “somethin’ tells me it’s better a’ stay where the air’s thick, you know what ‘a mean?” We both laughed, and strung our masks a little tighter.
Other sources expect the scientists to land on Jupiter’s moon Europa, whose surface has still thawed just thirteen percent, is, as far as we know, uninhabitable.
Uninhabitable, I whisper back to myself.
Out my window my street’s fresh-air turbine lay dismantled on the ground, and pilfered bits; bolts, plating, shafts, are left behind and scattered between every intersection. Only 32nd Street is left clean, where a mural of Peter Pan is preserved in the center. Passerby pause; some to cry some to titter, but all frail and fixated on the gouache foliage of Neverland Jungle, the glass water of Mermaid Lagoon. I walk near them but not beside. Neighborhood moms complain they’re turning into ghosts, but I think they’re only considering it.
The International Department of Astrogeology believes they’ve discovered three impending earth fissures, or tears in the earth, only at about several hundreds times anything we’ve seen before. The first is set to open in one day’s time on Feb 24.
A map of the Western Hemisphere appears on the screen. The first fissure is expected to stretch from Ottawa, Canada, to Matanzas, Cuba. A red line crawls between the two cities, it passes right below my feet. The other two fissures will intersect at Ngari Prefecture, Tibet, and span an even larger area at -fzzt. I cut the newscast.
I open my door and DC is floating, half dead half living. Screams choke the air, out of dread, out of anguish, or maybe just to be heard. Broken glass on either side of storefronts, punctured windshields stained not with dust but blood, and shivering backs hunched in corners, praying. On the yellow lines dividing 33rd Street, a man screams with his eyes closed. “End of the world and we’re here prayin’ to different people, tellin’ one another he’s prayin’ wrong!” I look up and down the street and decide he must be right. It’s too dangerous to appear in a car, too distracted to care for another ghost floating before the mural. As I drift away from the chaos and down 32nd Street I notice the breeze ripping across my jeans. They’re decidedly too baggy and do nothing for the cold, but I cherish them for the grass stains around the knees.
By 35th Street the mania of the fissure is nearly inaudible, save for a few stray shrieks echoing overhead. Instead it’s replaced by droning newscasts left running in empty houses. They sound through broken windows and up and down streets. I need to know, but I wish I wouldn’t have to so soon.
Sources suggest -fzzt- fissure will come much faster than expected -fzzt- eight hours at most.
Researchers in Beijing believe the fissure will -fzzt- swallow much greater an area than -fzzt- expected.
In the last six hours communications went blank. I try to call my parents but nothing, only a beep and a message.
Sorry, Verizon internet services have been shut down for the foreseeable future. Stay safe!
Similar messages are posted on Google, Facebook, sad smiley faces and “stay safes” at the end of the world. I too drop to a corner, and feel my eyes burn and face melt against the wall, collapsed.
I spend the last few hours in the Natural History Museum. It’s silent but the lights are all on. It’s incomplete, turnstiles frozen in place and ‘did you know?’ plaques hanging unviewed. I feel the bustle of visitors in the museum walls, distant like the face of someone you used to recognize. In the surface of a gemstone, emerald jade, I study my reflection. It’s hazy and multiplied but if I squint hard enough, I can see my eyes hang. I laugh, trudging aimlessly through the city and exhausted like a fool. Beside a fossil of a Barosaurus lentus I choose a bench with a cushion. It’s meager and weathered, but I wipe my eyes and know it’s perfect. With my coat spread flat I turn to my side, smiling, too content to be pensive. I only close my eyes and wait to hear the fossils rattle. I’d bet they’re tired too, I’d bet they’re smiling.
Conner Wood is a junior at New Providence High School. When he’s not writing, he may be found singing, studying, or eating at his favorite bagel shop.