THE TURQUOISE PEN

WHEN THE WORLD ENDS AT NOON

Noël R. King

Two days ago (on a Saturday, just before lunch). . . .

Because I wished to spend my last few hours in peace, I did not tell anyone else about the email I’d received ("The world will end today. Prepare"), nor did I forward it.

My neighbor, when the tremors first started, said, "Dear God, what is happening?"

I yelled over to her, "The world is ending." (Thank God, I added under my breath.)

It did, right then.

Now that it is gone, it hardly seems the time to write of it, for who will care? But here I am, with all that made it through with me: blue blanket, grapefruits in the bowl, computer on my lap, a ribbon in my hair.

I sit here waiting for the lights to blink back on and show me new terrain.

For I am certain that must be the case, that a new world must bang into being when the old one blows up, for sure.

Here come the lights! I am so thrilled! My world is new again; I get to start all fresh again, all right again.

My door’s in front of me. Oh, joy; oh glee! "Open, sesame!" I laugh, with great anticipation and a thrill. Who has ever deigned to fling the door wide open on a fresh new world before? Who will ever fling this way again?

Wait a second here, right by this door flung wide (and swaying in the breeze). . . . Isn’t that my smelly old neighbor there, across the yard? What is she doing here, in this nice and fresh clean world?

And if I squint, is that my trash all blown across the walk and not blown up, away, and gone for good?

Uh-oh. Something is very wrong here. Very very wrong. Mailbox: full of bills. Driveway: same old car. Broken finger joint from long ago: still broken finger joint from long ago. (Ouch, it hurts! I must have banged it during The End.)

I hate my job! I hate my house! I hate my life! Uh-oh. Aren’t new worlds supposed to have new thoughts?

I am going to sit here for a second on my stoop and think about all this. Oh no! Here she comes, my mean old smelly old neighbor, crossing right across the yard. Where can I hide? How can I run?

What? What’s that she’s said to me? "You’re happy, what!" I nearly yell once more. "You’re happy I’m still here to be your friend?"

Maybe this is a new world, after all.

—As circumstances warrant, through her Turquoise Pen column, Noël R. King, Scottsville, Virginia, reports on strange and wonderful things, including ends and beginnings of worlds.