The Movie Theater at the End of the World by Michael Paul Kozlowsky
Short-shorts team lead Jordan Vines on today’s bonus short: Apocalypse is a genre all too familiar. And yet, “The Movie Theater at the End of the World” invites us to experience the end like a good film: tinged with nostalgia; a blissful memory of how the world used to be. We loved stopping in at this movie theatre. Consider grabbing a bag of popcorn, and see for yourself.
The Movie Theater at the End of the World
I didn’t see anyone on my way to the movie theater. Actually, I hadn’t seen anyone in a very long time. They have all either fled for higher ground, are locked in their houses, or are wrapped in cocoons of denial. Not that I ever really interacted much with people these past twenty years, or even left my bedroom for that matter. But we were told the sea walls would be coming down, that it was only a matter of time. We have failed one another. Soon my home will be an island.
The theater, like everything else, has been abandoned. It is one of those old theaters, the kind that once played old movies on old projectors as old stiff people sat in old stiff seats and ate old stale popcorn. Upon entering the deserted lobby, I noticed the water had already started seeping in, like spillover from an infinity pool. Meanwhile I trekked upstairs and, flashing back to my very first job, ran the projector.
Now I sit watching The Crow until the scene when the girl with the skateboard says it’s more like surfing than skating, and Brandon Lee responds, “It can’t rain all the time,” which is a lie I could no longer bear. As a child I threw the line around whenever it rained and I wanted to go outside and play with friends, ride bikes through new neighborhoods, get lost on trails in dark woods, creep around an abandoned house, play street hockey or baseball, or just sit on the front porch and talk and talk and talk, all of it irrelevant but somehow utterly perfect. What the hell did I know? Everything was different then. I had friends then, lots of them. We were together nonstop, back when the summers lasted years, Christmas was a mindset, and even the mundane was magical. Where are they now? I haven’t talked to a single one of them in decades.
As I exit the theater to change the film, I notice the water entering through the double doors at the back. A slow cascade down the slight incline. For the briefest of seconds, I see my younger self, beaming like a projector, come charging through in search of a seat. My parents used to take me to this theater, but that was a long, long time ago.
My footsteps are heavy, my jeans retaining the water I had walked through to get here. My legs are cold and that coldness is spreading quickly, enough to cause a sharp pain in my chest. I put on another movie, Orson Welles’s The Trial. When I come back down, there’s a person sitting in the third row, an older woman with several possessions on either side of her, all of it drenched. I don’t disturb her. I just sit back down in the center seat of the last row.
Each time I go back to change the movie, another person appears. Nobody talks. Nobody moves. They just sit and watch.
Meanwhile the water is rising. It’s coming in faster now.
We sit and watch the movies and I get the feeling we’re not seeing what’s really up on the screen. We’re watching what we want to watch, snippets of our lives, all the things we couldn’t hold on to. Every movie is the saddest movie. Every movie is the funniest.
Oh, man. I thought I was paying attention. Where did it all go? How can I get there again? Sitting in a dark room, watching movies, I convince myself I could get it right this time. I’d do it better. Mom, I miss you. I didn’t do everything I wanted to do. Hardly anything at all.
The water’s past my ankles now and rising quickly. Miles away, the sea walls are buckling—I can practically hear them giving way. There’s not much time left. The water’s going to come in all at once.
The next time I change the film I realize it will be my last. I’m wading through chest high waters. The ceiling is leaking. I put on The Wizard of Oz.
When I get back downstairs there are now two dozen people in the theater. They’re sitting closer together now. The water is up to their chests. Some are holding hands. Everyone is calm as Dorothy sings “Over the Rainbow.”
My parents played this movie for me every day for the first four years of my life.
The water is rising.
I used to know all the songs and dances.
This is the end.
I pronounced witch wish.
As the water comes gushing in, submerging us, the screen goes from black and white to color. We’re in Oz now. And it’s all so vibrant. So beautiful. Another world.
Beneath the water, I keep my eyes open, watching the screen. The images are warped and split but the glow is magical. It’s calling me. I’m a child again. I’m doing it all over. My parents are sitting beside me. I’m not alone anymore. There’s so much still before me. So much. I can get it right this time.
My body is completely numb. We’re all floating. The Witch arrives but I’m not even scared. Her fire can’t hurt me here. I like the way this movie makes me feel. So much hope. So much possibility. It seems so real, even if, at the end, it’s all just a dream.
Michael Paul Kozlowsky is the author of Scarecrow Has a Gun. His children's novels, written as M.P. Kozlowsky, includeJuniper Berry andThe Dyerville Tales from HarperCollins, and Frost and Rose Coffin from Scholastic Press. His writing has appeared on The No Sleep Podcast, and in Whiskey Tit, The New Croton Review, Miracle Monocle, and The Inquisitive Eater, among others. He lives in New York. He can be contacted through his website at mpkozlowsky.com.
