The day the world ended, I was 16 years old, and sitting at a table in a Waffle House.
Nobody knew exactly how it was supposed to happen. Nuclear war? Asteroid? A sudden cessation of all life? Regardless of the impending end, I was determined to see it through while enjoying my plate of hash browns (scattered, smothered, and covered as always) and with my writing notebook out on the table. Being published was a dream for a later date, one when I would finally be convinced that my scribbles were worth something.
But then again, it was supposed to be the end of the world. It was marked on the calendar, after all. No more days followed this one. If I was lucky, future alien archeologists would find my corpse and decipher my ancient texts. And, like I do today, they would recognize the inexperienced wordsmithing of an anxious adolescent with big worlds stuffed into his small head.
The world never really did end that day, though. Things have kept moving forward as they always have, and yet another doomsday prophesy was left in the dust. If the world really does end, I'd still choose to enjoy one last plate of Waffle House hashbrowns, scattered, smothered, and covered. If I'm feeling adventurous, maybe I'll get them chunked, too.