In Regards to the Apocalypse

Riley Justice, Journalist

An incomplete list:


When the end of the world came about, everything disappeared. 


No more school. No more ridiculous hours of sitting at a desk waiting for the sweet release of 3:10. No more slumped over bodies, heads hiding under blonde highlighted hair that waited in tired suspension of a teacher realizing they’re far too exhausted to pay attention, much less lift their head. No more losing pencils or echoes of metal locker doors banging shut down the hallway. No more off periods where you run for freedom, only to be tethered in again the next day. No more clipping binder rings open and closed again, no matter how annoying it might be. No more terrible cafeteria lunch where a spider was once rumored to have been found in an unsuspecting teenager’s salad bar meal. No more dreaded gym classes, flopping hair, ill-intentioned teasing, laughing, screeching, working, stressing, sighing. No more keeping it hidden that when it really comes down to it, you really loved all of those things you said you hated.


No more tapping of frantic fingernails on a cheap computer. No more huddling over the blue screen you’re not supposed to watch before bed at the cool, granite kitchen table. No more scrolling through the depths of the internet, once considered a hell hole. Now, after, considered a blessing. No more crappy posts and terrible memes that you used to think were so funny. No more ‘butt buzzes.’ No more hearing the tinny ringing of a cell phone and feeling the unavoidable swooping in your stomach in illogical response. No more knowing the sound of that one person’s text messages. 


No more beautiful, lovely words, filling oodles of books. No more dyed Post-it bookmarks scribbled with highlighter. No more plastic binders filled with work and colors you’ve already forgotten. No more writing for an audience I’ll never meet. No more crinkling covers encasing library books. 


No more random things. No more off brand Thermo-flask water bottle with an over saturated Spiderman sticker. No more plasticky helium balloons suspended and prepared for a birthday party. No more Costco fig bars and no more fidgeting with a clear, flexible phone case when society becomes too uncomfortable to handle face on. No more curling up in the sunshine. No more suspension strung up in the air, your body soaring before your spine slams back into the harsh cradle of a swing set. 


No more art, no more dance, no more music. No more swinging careless hips around a clashing acrylic painting, white molded earbuds buzzing out recorded voices from long ago. No more slipping of ballet shoes over skidded black floors. No more tights, stained in the car on the way to class by a smoking peppermint tea sloshing over a llama painted mug. No more slip of a skirt over the knee, no more repetition of a move over and over so that all you can feel is blood threading your neck, begging you to drop. No more vibrant strings of a piano booming up into a new house, christening and filling to the brim. No more cold nights cowering in the basement, practicing on a keyboard because the end of the world happened before you could buy your own piano. No more clunky strums of a guitar. No more sketches sent away into the invisible lines of text message. No more recorded and forgotten music, begging to be released from waving blue screens. No more failed choreography, laughed and mocked through an electronic. No more devices. No more connections. 


No more light.