Temperatures rose, sea level too.
Melting glaciers flooded more land.
Some struggled to reduce emissions.
Others shrugged, undaunted by growing evidence
Of fires, floods, and environmental chaos.
Politicians dithered, totally impotent.
Humanity stood staring at the abyss,
Desperate for saviours, but none appeared.
Look to yourselves, a tiny voice said.
Alan Kemister is a retired scientist experimenting with more fictitious writing. He’s currently working on a climate change novel. Get the gory details at alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com.
The cat walks away, padding across the floor, its rough tongue sanding the red around its chops. Behind it, the pigeon lies in a carpet of feathers, waiting for the cleaning lady to sweep her lifeless body into the big blue dustbin. In a nest, two eggs wait for warmth.
Rhema Suresh lives in Kerala, India. After being a student her entire life, she is currently on a break. She holds a master’s degree in English from the University of Hyderabad.
She had attempted to ignore him, hoping he wouldn’t approach her as she stood alone in the aisle of the bookstore. He was the persistent kind, though.
After approaching her, he mustered a polite smile and blinked twice.
“Excuse me,” she said by way of introduction, gently fanning behind herself.
Ran Walker is the author of seventeen books, the most recent of which is PORTABLE BLACK MAGIC: TALES OF THE AFRO STRANGE. He teaches creative writing at Hampton University.
As we went to the restaurant to eat in the evening sun, the beach was emptying of towels and people. Amid the smell of sun cream and ozone, you said it had been a fun day. I knew otherwise, because on your phone you watched pictures of other people’s lives.
Henry writes short fiction and poetry. He lives in Somerset in the UK.
The sky was full of white jellyfish. They were drifting down over everything. Parks, neighborhoods, baseball fields, the oil refinery. Thousands of them. Tiny stickmen with backpacks clung to them.
Papa was crying beside the window. “You must always share with your brother.”
Papa was a negotiator.
I didn’t understand.
Thomas Fitzgerald McCarthy is a licensed English teacher, poker player, and short story writer from New Jersey.
The metal frame lay across the pasture, its ironwork rusty red. Edward mused that it had once stood erect, envisioning a tower that would have pierced the very sky.
“To have seen such a thing!” he marvelled.
The wind howled its agreement, as it roared through the ruins of Paris.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. He doubts his sanity all the time, and sometimes it doubts him right back.
The story of the week for October 7 to 11 is…
No Returns, Exchanges, or Refunds by Maria Cargille
My paper doll of a mother likes to put on different cutout kits and try to convince people of things. She’s not very good at it, though, because she’s a paper doll and so when she stands in the light to make her speeches we can see right through her.
Robert Hoekman Jr. thinks you die when you stop wanting. He writes and writes and writes. He lives on a farm in Virginia and refuses to be put into a box.
He banged the door behind him without replying. She melted.
After nineteen years, her husband didn’t need a reason to be annoyed.
Giving up, she commissioned a humanoid. Same looks, his smile–the way he once was.
Now she could let him go,
and still have him to her liking.
Mandira Pattnaik writes in India. Her work has appeared in The Times of India, Editor’s Pick Juggernaut Publishing, Microfiction Monday, Fiftywordstories, Paragraph Planet, FewerThan500 and (Mac) ro (mic).
Jenice left the dorm, left her purse bedside.
Success: her phone showed Channel 3 suspected abduction. Maybe that police siren nearing Lowell Woods was coming to search for her at last.
She ripped her shirt collar, threw her phone into the creek.
Denny would never threaten to leave her again.
Shoshauna is often inspired by the other 50-word stories that authors write for this site, and is grateful for that.