As I write this, the wind is beating the windows of my bedroom, warnings of storm Eunice are popping up on my phone, and I’ve realised that earlier today, I watched a video about how the moon could cause the end of the world in 2030. It’s too late for coffee. I haven’t finished reading the novel I need to for university, and I need to edit a slam poem, book a train ticket, and cash a cheque. I have no time for the end of the world. Or, at least, I have no time for the most likely end of the world, which will happen at some point in the future. That’s future Me’s problem. But what is it that draws people to disaster fiction?

If I’ve learnt anything from movies like The Day After Tomorrow and 2012, it’s that disaster happens in the blink of an eye. In most modern disaster films, it’s not a small group of survivors escaping a capsized Poseidon, it’s a moon crashing, earth-burning, blood-curdling end-of-all-time catastrophe. And if you aren’t an A-list star with a family or have some unresolved issues with an ex-spouse, child, or parental figure, then, good luck.

But most disaster movies are nothing more than ephemeral thrill rides. I can distance myself from them, tell myself it’s fiction, and won’t happen that way. Covid-19 was not the Andromeda Strain and 2012 didn’t signify the end of the world. But maybe that’s why we enjoy them?

From the safety of a bedroom, we witness fictitious heroes emerge victorious in the face of annihilation. While outside the world rages on with tedious signs of its potential end. And I can’t help but ask, where’s the glory? Who wants to be one of the billions of heroes who recycle, cut their emissions, and eat less meat? The irony is that these acts could be counted as heroisms against the end of the world and can be done from the safety of a bedroom. But isn’t it easier to pretend there will be one day marked for disaster, where everyone gets a chance to test their disaster fiction knowledge and emerge victoriously? Rather than acknowledge the worlds death will creep in slowly, not with a bang, but with a whimper. Realise that it’s mundane acts like fitting recycling in between my essay writing and paying bills that will make the difference.

The problem is future Me won’t be given a chance to pull their head up from a book or look away from a screen. To feel comforted that the world is still intact. Future Me will ask why past Me was such a little …….. . He won’t be happy, to say the least. Because he will realise there was no defining moment, just a sea rising slowly, wet and ruined books, and cinemas being used as shelters against the end of the world.

_{^{Image by Addison Williams.}}