Too Early for the Apocalypse

You get woken up before your alarm clock. It should be dark outside, but the darkness is mixed up with lights. They wobble and hover – yellow-white, floaty, flickery, inconsistent. You only want to shut your eyes, roll over, go back to sleep.

But the sharp red numbers of the clock read 5:45. Theres no going back to sleep in that time.

You could try.

You should just get up.

There’s a whirring sound in the air. The lights don’t want to leave it.

Fine! You’ll get up then. But the warmth of your bed clings like wet leaves, even as you sit up, even as you convince you heavy logs of legs to swing over the side, you can feel it calling you back, just about pleading, reasoning… and there’s so many good reasons…

No. You’re up now. You shrug on that old cardigan that’s sort of being making do as a dressing gown for a while now, and you plod your way out of the bedroom towards the kitchen.

A strong, black coffee: that’s what you need. You snip the jug on, pour some milk, a good couple of teaspoons. You wonder where the cat is. Shouldn’t he be weaving around your legs by now wanting to know where his breakfast is? You miss the tickle of fur around your ankles, the plaintive meow.

You would say to yourself it’s too quiet in here, but that’s not actually the case. The close truth is that it’s all just the wrong kind of noisy. You can hear it outside your window, the sirens, the chopper blades, sounds that might be shouting and running, a kind of rumble that doesn’t quite sound like thunder and might be more like an explosion. There’s light spilling in through the window, and far too much of it. Red, yellow, blue, orange – it has the temerity to be too many colours, too bright, too lurid, too early. Must you…? It drowns on the wet road; it twinkles on the leaves at your gate. Bright little sparkles of brightness on wetness; and your coffee hasn’t even boiled yet.

A voice gets broadcast across the neighbourhood, roaring down the streets, getting caught in the trees. THIS IS A CIVIL DEFENCE EMERGENCY. ITS ESSENTIAL THAT EVERYONE EVACUATE RIGHT NOW. PLEASE LEAVE YOUR HOMES IN AN ORDERLY FASHION.

But the radio has people calling in, wailing about the end of days. “Come out of your homes? But where is there to run? Isn’t anybody listening? It’s all over the world!”

It’s not six o’clock yet. Well, maybe it is, somewhere, all over the world. But not here, in your over-lit, over-noisy kitchen.

The jug clicks.

You pour boiling water.

THIS IS A CIVIL DEFENCE….

Not now please. Not now.

You pick your mug in both hands and slink back off towards your bedroom. It’s way too early in the morning for the Apocalypse.

You get woken up before your alarm clock. It should be dark outside, but the darkness is mixed up with lights. They wobble and hover – yellow-white, floaty, flickery, inconsistent. You only want to shut your eyes, roll over, go back to sleep.

But the sharp red numbers of the clock read 5:45. Theres no going back to sleep in that time.

You could try.

You should just get up.

There’s a whirring sound in the air. The lights don’t want to leave it.

Fine! You’ll get up then. But the warmth of your bed clings like wet leaves, even as you sit up, even as you convince you heavy logs of legs to swing over the side, you can feel it calling you back, just about pleading, reasoning… and there’s so many good reasons…

No. You’re up now. You shrug on that old cardigan that’s sort of being making do as a dressing gown for a while now, and you plod your way out of the bedroom towards the kitchen.

A strong, black coffee: that’s what you need. You snip the jug on, pour some milk, a good couple of teaspoons. You wonder where the cat is. Shouldn’t he be weaving around your legs by now wanting to know where his breakfast is? You miss the tickle of fur around your ankles, the plaintive meow.

You would say to yourself it’s too quiet in here, but that’s not actually the case. The close truth is that it’s all just the wrong kind of noisy. You can hear it outside your window, the sirens, the chopper blades, sounds that might be shouting and running, a kind of rumble that doesn’t quite sound like thunder and might be more like an explosion. There’s light spilling in through the window, and far too much of it. Red, yellow, blue, orange – it has the temerity to be too many colours, too bright, too lurid, too early. Must you…? It drowns on the wet road; it twinkles on the leaves at your gate. Bright little sparkles of brightness on wetness; and your coffee hasn’t even boiled yet.

A voice gets broadcast across the neighbourhood, roaring down the streets, getting caught in the trees. THIS IS A CIVIL DEFENCE EMERGENCY. ITS ESSENTIAL THAT EVERYONE EVACUATE RIGHT NOW. PLEASE LEAVE YOUR HOMES IN AN ORDERLY FASHION.

But the radio has people calling in, wailing about the end of days. “Come out of your homes? But where is there to run? Isn’t anybody listening? It’s all over the world!”

It’s not six o’clock yet. Well, maybe it is, somewhere, all over the world. But not here, in your over-lit, over-noisy kitchen.

The jug clicks.

You pour boiling water.

THIS IS A CIVIL DEFENCE….

Not now please. Not now.

You pick your mug in both hands and slink back off towards your bedroom. It’s way too early in the morning for the Apocalypse.

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work