After I died I watched my invention rolling on through generations and centuries—ever larger, ever faster, more numerous, powered at last by the burning of Earth’s darkest fuels until the air itself changed and the suffocating world headed towards another night.
I would uninvent the wheel, if I could.
Fiona M Jones wrote this story.
Timothy traces his finger
around the shape
that once illuminated
the back of the device.
“Did they worship these?”
His grandfather recalls
long nights spent
camped out in queues
“I guess we did!”
The boy struggles
to sleep that night.
He imagines the past,
when Earth had trees.
Sarah Caroline Bell is a writer based in Seoul.
“Our little factory is struggling to keep its head above water. Originally, we manufactured buggy whips. Later, we switched to rumble-seat covers for Model A Fords. Now, we need to scrap our outdated business model and look to the future.”
“Producing what product?”
“Waterproof stilts for pedestrians in low-lying cities.”
John H. Dromey’s short fiction has been published in Mystery Weekly Magazine and over 150 other venues.
We’re getting older. We’re running out of time to do all the things we wanted. We planned to cruise the coast of Scandinavia and dance under the Aurora Borealis. But things keep getting in the way.
The ice sheets are melting. The Arctic is burning.
We’re running out of time.
Juliet is an adult education tutor, crafter, and conservation volunteer based in Edinburgh, UK. She blogs at craftygreenpoet.blogspot.com and tweets at @craftygeenpoet.
Minuscule irritants in nasal passage of the cosmos, we insist on festering and aggravating, even destroying the dust particle on which we blew in.
While some continue solipsistic hedonism, others try to repair the sins done by action and prayer.
Watery-eyed, The Maker sneezes.
“Gesundheit!” an archangel declares.
Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.
I don’t mind what you call me
Mum, Mummy, Mother
but I care how you treat me.
Have respect for me.
Care for me.
I am dying and time is running out.
There’s no going back.
So much wrong.
Too much to heal.
I’m your Mother.
I am Mother Nature.
Jean lives in Bath in the UK. She is trying to care for her corner of the world.
Seas warming by degrees, growing more acidic, weakening the skeletons of animals and plants. The scientists call it “mass bleaching.”
Giant clams with green dots on their flesh. The hawksbill turtle and hammerhead shark, damselfish and manta ray turn paler, swimming through rippling tendrils of ghost coral.
Nemo seems unaffected.
Beth Sherman received an MFA in creative writing from Queens College, where she teaches in the English department. Her fiction has appeared in numerous publications, including The Portland Review, Sandy River Review, Blue Lyra Review, Panoplyzine, Peacock Journal, 3Elements Review, Gloom Cupboard, The Delmarva Review, Sou’wester, Sinkhole, Compose Journal, Ponder Review and Marathon Literary Review. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has written five mystery novels.