Dancing — that’s what I’d be doing.

I remember the assignment. Our teacher asked us to write down what we wished we would be doing if the bomb dropped.

Twelve years later, my worst fear was realized.

The anchors on every news television station stared blankly into the camera. Some wailed loudly. Some accepted their fates. Some used the platform to place blame on our leaders.

None of it mattered now. As of 7:45 AM this morning, war was declared on our country. Nuclear warheads were being prepped for launch.

Were we the bad guys? Did we deserve this?

Questions filled my head, but I remained surprisingly calm. I realized, staring out the window at the thousands of people fleeing by car and on foot hoping that they may somehow escape the obliteration, that I was fortunate to not have a family anymore. Every family was burdened with telling their loved ones that they love them. Forcing themselves to face their mortality in the face of all of those around them as well.

I could sit and consider if the country’s peace talks went better. I could sit and consider where I would be if I hadn’t taken that low-paying soul-eating job straight out of college. I could even sit and consider what I could have eaten for breakfast instead of those toasted pastry.

The sirens blared through the streets.

There was less screaming than I thought. Most people were busy gasping for air while hyperventilating.

If I left now, I might make it to the area of the blast radius where I could survive, but eventually feel the effects of the radiation.

Rather than suffering a slow and painful death, I chose to live up until the moment I evaporated.

It’s not the shock of the bomb that kills you immediately, it’s the intense heat. It burns so quickly and so extreme that your skin instantly… well…

I guess I don’t have much time now. The missiles are already airborne. No way of knowing which city they will hit first. The air force will try and intercept as many as possible, but it won’t be enough.

So I drown out the sirens and the commotion with my record player. The honking becomes trumpets. The crashing sounds of garbage cans being turned over and cars colliding becomes a soft beat of the drums. The sound of piano fills my apartment. My furniture, now pushed to the room’s edge, is not in my path.

And now, as the world as I know it comes to an end.

I’m dancing.

I’m dancing.

I’m d—

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J.P. Polewczak

Broadcasting in text from the exotic lands of New Jersey. The absolute worst when it comes to self-deprecating humor. Analyst by day and in bed by night.

Latest posts by J.P. Polewczak (see all)

• Where is Home? - 29/07/16
• Crammed - 15/07/16
• DEEP WI-FI - 09/07/16
• Influenced Over the Edge - 18/06/16
• Drop by Drop - 06/06/16