There will be a bakery at the end of the world.
When the sun turns into a red giant and begins to swell — an angry, infected beast letting out the breath it has been holding for billions of years — it will swallow the earth. The oceans will boil, the trees will disintegrate, and the very rock that makes up the impregnable shell of our planet will melt away.
But just before that happens, there will be a bakery.
It will be small, with a pink sign out front and a blue awning. There will be a sitting area with some cheap plastic chairs and one of those shade umbrellas that doesn’t work, and a parking lot big enough for a few cars. The windows of the shop will glint a brilliant gold, reflecting the light of Armageddon — the chaos of matter being converted into pure energy.
And you’ll be there. You’ll approach the front of the bakery, probably muttering something about how blue and pink is really quite a played-out color scheme and those plastic chairs don’t match the awning style either. But still you’ll walk to the front door and open it, bells jingling to let the owner know you’ve entered. You’ll cast a judgemental eye upon the rows of croissants, cakes, pies, and those cream-filled things that look delicious but are in reality comparable to driftwood.
The tall figure behind the counter will be Death. Death will have no face of its own, but instead one large inky hole in the center of its head. The hole will appear endlessly deep, churning at its center in a collage of the utmost extremes of the universe. You will see in its face-hole the reddest of reds, the greenest of greens, the banana-est of all bananas — everything in its purest and most concentrated form, all being exhaled in a final breath of completion.
Death will be wearing a blue apron with pink stitching.
At this point, you will look down at the pastries before you and point at one of the cream-filled driftwoods. Death will open the display case and gingerly place the pastry into a wax paper bag. It’ll probably throw in a few complementary donut holes for good measure. It’s safe to say you won’t have your wallet, what with the world ending and all that. But Death will tell you, with the wordiest of all words, that it’s on the house.
You’ll go outside to eat. If the world is going to end, you’re not going to miss it, are you? You’re going to sit in one of those plastic chairs as the heat of the sun turns the sand to glass, and as the mantle of the earth begins to rip through the crust, creating thousands of new pits and volcanoes from which the lifeblood of the planet seeps. You’ll take out your pastry and place it on top of the bag as gravity around the bakery finally gives up and releases billions of tons of molten rock into the air. You’ll bring it to your lips as the bakery behind you loses its roof, and faceless Death flies, with the flightiest of all flights, into the solar apocalypse overhead.
You’ll take a bite.
The earth and sun together will fold in around you like a blanket, and the bakery will be gone, and the pink sign and blue awning will be gone, and Death will be gone, and you’ll be gone, too.
And the pastry will most likely taste like driftwood.
But you knew that.
When the sun turns into a red giant and begins to swell — an angry, infected beast letting out the breath it has been holding for billions of years — it will swallow the earth. The oceans will boil, the trees will disintegrate, and the very rock that makes up the impregnable shell of our planet will melt away.
But just before that happens, there will be a bakery.
It will be small, with a pink sign out front and a blue awning. There will be a sitting area with some cheap plastic chairs and one of those shade umbrellas that doesn’t work, and a parking lot big enough for a few cars. The windows of the shop will glint a brilliant gold, reflecting the light of Armageddon — the chaos of matter being converted into pure energy.
And you’ll be there. You’ll approach the front of the bakery, probably muttering something about how blue and pink is really quite a played-out color scheme and those plastic chairs don’t match the awning style either. But still you’ll walk to the front door and open it, bells jingling to let the owner know you’ve entered. You’ll cast a judgemental eye upon the rows of croissants, cakes, pies, and those cream-filled things that look delicious but are in reality comparable to driftwood.
The tall figure behind the counter will be Death. Death will have no face of its own, but instead one large inky hole in the center of its head. The hole will appear endlessly deep, churning at its center in a collage of the utmost extremes of the universe. You will see in its face-hole the reddest of reds, the greenest of greens, the banana-est of all bananas — everything in its purest and most concentrated form, all being exhaled in a final breath of completion.
Death will be wearing a blue apron with pink stitching.
At this point, you will look down at the pastries before you and point at one of the cream-filled driftwoods. Death will open the display case and gingerly place the pastry into a wax paper bag. It’ll probably throw in a few complementary donut holes for good measure. It’s safe to say you won’t have your wallet, what with the world ending and all that. But Death will tell you, with the wordiest of all words, that it’s on the house.
You’ll go outside to eat. If the world is going to end, you’re not going to miss it, are you? You’re going to sit in one of those plastic chairs as the heat of the sun turns the sand to glass, and as the mantle of the earth begins to rip through the crust, creating thousands of new pits and volcanoes from which the lifeblood of the planet seeps. You’ll take out your pastry and place it on top of the bag as gravity around the bakery finally gives up and releases billions of tons of molten rock into the air. You’ll bring it to your lips as the bakery behind you loses its roof, and faceless Death flies, with the flightiest of all flights, into the solar apocalypse overhead.
You’ll take a bite.
The earth and sun together will fold in around you like a blanket, and the bakery will be gone, and the pink sign and blue awning will be gone, and Death will be gone, and you’ll be gone, too.
And the pastry will most likely taste like driftwood.
But you knew that.