Don't Be Dramatic (It's Just the End of the World)

Category C: First Place (2023) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Oscar Morphew

All I can hear are screams and the cracking of stone as the world around me falls into oblivion. I’m trying my best to pack only the essentials but I can’t quite decide on whether I should bring my international outlet adapter or not. I’m not really bringing anything that requires power, though my mini blender is always my response to the hypothetical ‘what luxury item could you not live without?’. Now that I’m faced with the practical application of that question I don’t really know if that’s true.

I want to be perfectly clear, when I say the world is falling into oblivion that isn’t just a poetic turn of phrase. I used to have a very nice view of the city from this window but now I can’t see anything past number 35. There is nothing to see but a swirling darkness. And number 35 has just dropped off the edge. The pavement is cracking, dropping out of sight. Old Mrs. Chesterton has made it out of number 36 just as it begins to drop. I know I’ll feel awful if I see her fall into the abyss but I have to know. Surprisingly, she finds a good pace with her walker and brow furrowed begins to outpace the destruction – it’s not like she’s moving very fast, more that the destruction is taking its time. It’s the determination I find impressive. Number 37 is beginning to fall. I should really hurry up.

I decide to leave the mini-blender and head downstairs to pack some clothes. I pull out several outfits and lay them on the bed, trying to figure out what will be the most practical baseline outfit for escaping and thriving in the apocalypse. I’ve got combat boots that I picked up from an op-shop that I always wear anyways so that’s an easy choice, but deciding what else goes into my backpack is a little less simple. If I do manage to survive, how long do I need to plan for? It’s summer but it’s been unseasonably cool, so bringing a light jumper seems a solid idea, but do I just bring a medium jacket or something that has a little bit more versatility like a puffer-vest and a long sleeve?

My phone is absolutely blowing up on my bed, so I quickly divert from my wardrobe to scan through the notifications. There’s a few spam emails from my subscription service. I’ll try to remember to cancel my Produce Box delivery, or just change the delivery address to wherever I settle on. The rest of the notifications are all from group chats – the work chat, the high school circle, my Wordle group. I scroll through them on my Lock Screen so no one sees I’ve seen their messages. Everyone’s really freaking out, trying to organise some rallying point but no one can agree. So typical. Instinctually, I open up Instagram and start scrolling through the reels to boost my mood. I send some of the funny ones to my roommate who immediately replies back.

“Lisa, where are you??” the message reads. No reaction to the video I sent. I roll my eyes before replying.

“I’m just at home.”

“I thought the flat would be gone by now? If you survive, can you bring my yellow jacket? I think I left it outside. Thanks babe!”

“Where are you?” I text back.

Dots…then nothing.

The house next door is wiggling. A street lamp falls over and Mrs. Chesterton shuffles past. I give my housemate’s last message a thumbs up and get off the bed. I leave what I have on: the puffer-vest, a long-sleeved shirt, my pyjama pants and boots. I run upstairs and pack the mini-blender and take a Tupperware container of three-day-old Chinese leftovers. I’m panicking now because I can see out the kitchen window that Number 40 is gone and we’re 41. Well technically we’re 41-B, but I can feel the room tilting. I take the recycling bin down the stairs with me, leaving it at the front as I dash out the back to look for the jacket.

The back fence is gone, and brick by brick the courtyard is dropping away. The old mannequin that we dragged home one drunken night is wearing the hell out of the yellow jacket. As it begins to fall, it feels like now is the time to act. I grab it by the hood and drag it back from the advancing precipice. I can see over the edge now. I can see all the houses and cars and chunks of pavement and pipes all just drifting down like a big puzzle that’s been laid out onto the table. I can see people too, floating, holding onto telegraph poles, sailing away. My body is flushed with fear now that I’m here. I drag the mannequin back inside as the flat begins to tilt. Hard plastic and cardboard spills past me and rain out the back down into the darkness. I make it up the incline and burst out the front door and along the garden path as my home for the last three years disappears. I start trying to unstick the zipper on the yellow jacket the mannequin is wearing, its lower half falls off in the struggle but I keep moving.

The street is desolate. I can see Mrs. Chesterton rounding the corner. Disappearing out of sight. God, what an inspiring woman. I wish I had invested a bit more time getting to know her. I think the only interaction we ever had was on a Saturday night months ago when we thought that her house was our house. I should’ve gone back to apologise the next day for the mess. Maybe I could’ve asked if she wanted me to read to her, or sit there and eat her baked goods, or be a confidant for her to tell all of her harrowingly salacious secrets to before she carked it. I’ve always wanted to be a confidant but I don’t know if that’s what you do with an old person. I don’t really have any old people in my life. Both sets of grandparents were dead by the time I was born, which I think is incredibly bad odds.

I can’t get the zipper unstuck so I just wiggle the mannequin out of the jacket and drop the torso. There is an incredibly unreasonable feeling of guilt leaving behind half of a humanoid object, it looks like a soldier in a war movie reaching up for me to save him. Even without any facial features, my brain paints the look of despair on it. I hate my brain.

In the park there is a group of 200 people all wearing white and singing “You are my sunshine”. I must look pretty crazy as I walk past them, carrying half a mannequin on my back and a yellow jumper balled up underneath my armpit and two canvas bags filled with appliances in one hand and my boots and my pyjama pants. The abyss is now at the edge of the park and the group all start doing synchronised movements.

“Lisa?” one of them calls out. It’s a dude with a shaved head. Which isn’t really helpful because everyone there has a shaved head. But they’re running up to me, smiling and waving. I stop and smile back.

“Hi-ho!” I say for some reason.

“Oh my god, how funny is this?” the cult guy says with his hands on his hips.

Shit. I recognise him now that he’s standing two feet away from me. His name’s Gerry, or Barry or Berry or something along that rhyming scheme. We went on two-and-a-half dates two months ago. The last time I saw him was at the half date. He had taken me to this hole-in-the-wall spaghetti place where the dishes cost ten dollars and the bread was free. I had said yes because it was four days till payday and I was broke. It was as we were waiting for our meals, that a couple of old Italian men watching a little TV in the corner starting making a commotion. Soon, the whole establishment was gathered around it. Apparently the world was ending. The program cut to the prime minister and clips of other world leaders addressing their nations. There was a three-to-six month window when it would begin. Berry, or Barry or Gerry went to hold my hand dramatically but I pulled away and told him I think we should just be friends.

I got my spaghetti to go and went back home to start rewatching Seinfeld from the beginning.

I think it was a mistake to tell everyone with so much time to go. It was either not enough time or way too much. For the most part everyone just kind of went on with their lives like normal but not. Everyone was a little absent, or a little overly fixated on certain things. And some people waited for it, like the cult like Jerry, or Brett or—

“I’m sorry, what was your name again?” I ask.

“I’ve actually said goodbye to the names of this world.”

“Yeah but what was your name before all this?”

“It was Marcus,” he said, looking me up and down. “You look well.”

“Thanks, I’ve been kind of a mess.”

“We’ve got room if you wanna join?”

“Might be a little late for me.” I say, looking over to the abyss that was now claiming cult members.

“I mean I’ve got a spare set of robes and an electric razor on me,” he says, holding up his tote bag.

“No, thanks. I’ve gotta give my housemate her jacket.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea. But I think I would like to just keep doing things like that while I can.”

“Okay. Well it was good seeing you.”

“You too, dude. Have a nice, you know, whatever this is.”

“Thanks,” he smiles, turning away and dropping over the edge. I lug the mannequin and head off, still hearing the singing echoing from below.

I message my housemate a picture of me, the mannequin and her yellow jumper. Then I see the reply I’d missed earlier. “We’re taking my uncle’s boat and sailing to New Zealand. You should come if you can get here by 2pm.”

It was 3.35pm now.

My phone buzzes in my hand with a new message.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. We went over the edge. Turns out it’s coming from all directions.”

“What’s it like?“ I message. “Yeah, we’re just kind of falling slowly. It’s not actually as bad as I thought it was gonna be.”

A selfie comes through of her on the boat with the all black background.

Up ahead, I see Mrs. Chesterton sitting on a bench. She is breathing heavily, but still manages to smile as I cross the road to join her.

“You’re one of the girls from next door, aren’t you?” she asks.

“Yeah. Are you alright?”

“I’m just catching my breath and then I’ll hurry on,” she says, motioning onwards, up the road.

“It’s coming from that way too.”

“Shit. Well, I suppose I’ll just wait here for it.”

And we do. I hold the mannequin on my lap, with its arms around me. Both ends of the street start to fall away. This is my last chance.

“Do you have any salacious secrets you wanna share before the end?”

Mrs. Chesterton looks at me and smiles, patting my knee.

“Not really, darling.”

I close my eyes as our little island reduces to nothing. My stomach rises up into my chest as we fall. My canvas bags are gone. My Chinese takeaway and my mini-blender are lost. I’m glad I didn’t leave the mannequin behind because it’s holding me now, and I feel safer than I have all day. All week. All my life. I’m floating and it’s not nearly as bad as I thought it would be.