Another End of the World

This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.

Another End of the World

By Plot Roach

I didn’t realize what I was going to do with the rest of my life until it smacked me in the face and I couldn’t ignore it anymore. But first, you have to understand, I had missed the end of the world. And the only reason I found out about it at all is that a friend sent me an email about it.

Seriously.

I was at my desk, processing yet another batch of insurance payment forms when I checked my email. I usually get about three crappy emails from the company about what to expect in processing procedural changes, one daily ‘inspirational’ message form the founder of the company explaining why I should be thankful for my job, and a few messages from coworkers who find funny pictures of cats or babies on the internet and think that it’s their duty to pass it along like a virus.

This virus happened to be a story about a crazy old man who had gotten hit by lightning, started having visions, and convinced people in half a dozen states that the rapture would take them all to heaven at about noon today.

I got the email at 12:07 pm. I sighed, knowing that I wasn’t one of the saved, and read the rest of the article. It turns out that the prophet and his followers weren’t among the saved either. And that the rapture would be put off until the following month.

I laughed, deleted the email, and went about my work. How often has the end of the world happened and I never knew about it, much less it actually came to pass? Never. But I began to think very hard about it on the way home. The bus rocked, packed with strangers who had also been speared the torment of flames and brimstone. And the pain, when it hit me, was like nothing I had ever experienced before. Tears poured out of me to rival the rain that streaked the bus window beside me. Everything I had every been, or wanted to be and failed loomed out at me like a bloated corpse. I couldn’t ignore it anymore. If I had died today, I would not have been happy about where my life had ended up.

As a child, I put all of my dreams aside and listened to the ‘grown ups’ in my life who knew more than me. I figured that they had made the mistakes and knew the right path that I should take in life. It wasn’t art school, though it was my favorite subject and I had talent enough to win small local contests as a child. No, I plodded on the road that my family set before me, not one of happiness and fulfillment, but one that would pay the bills and keep a roof over my head.

In that instance I felt like a bird, whose wings have been clipped all its life, seeing a phoenix rise from the ashes and streak off into the night. Where was my passion, my fire? Could I still use my wings?

Once home, I pulled all that I could find of ‘art supplies’ onto the kitchen table to evaluate my remaining skills. Being that I had given up on my talent to be a ‘grown up’ myself, I couldn’t find much, so I would have to improvise.

I worked through the night. My skills were a bit fuzzy at first, but sharpened back into shape. The following morning found me streaked with ink, food coloring and bits of hardened salt dough. I raced through my morning tasks, washing away the evidence of my tinkering, though I could not push it away from my mind.

At work, all I could think of were techniques to strengthen my skills, the supplies that I would need to buy and the things that I wished to make. I could barely work through my normal pile of paperwork, and thanked the fates that were listening when the day ended and I could race home to begin my hobby yet again.

It went like this for a few weeks until I could stand it no longer. I quit my job, cashed in my vacation days and my retirement fund. I sold anything and everything of value that I would not be taking with me. And I packed a bag, just one. In it was a spare set of clothing, the rest was packed to the brim with watercolor blocks, pencils, pens, paper and other assorted bits I would need on my journey.

I called my mother from the payphone of the airport. “I’m going to India, mother.”

“What?!” What in the world are you doing?” she yelled into the phone. “You’ll ruin your life. What about your job? Your home?”

“It’s all gone, Mother.” I answered. “But my life is just beginning. I‘m going to travel the world and capture it in my art.” Then I hung up the phone before she could protest.

As I handed my ticket over to travel down the long hallway to the plane I realized that today was the day that had been rescheduled as the end of the world. Yet no asteroids fell from the heavens, no lakes of fire opened up to swallow me. All was well with the world, or as well as it could be. I sighed and set my bag in the overhead compartment, giving my seatmate a smile as I took my seat.

It was not the end of the world. But it was the end of the world as I knew it.