The procession stomped past, kicking up red sand. Participants dressed in blue and green, holding banners in remembrance of Planet Earth, singing old songs.
Annie squeezed her grandmother’s hand.
“Nana. What are we celebrating?”
“It’s been fifty years since we had to leave,” she replied, gazing at the empty sky.
David Turton is a fiction author, flitting between science fiction, post-apocalyptic horror and straight-up terror. Look out for his published work across various online publications as well as a forthcoming Body Horror Anthology due in late 2017.
A fetal ball on freshly-turned loam, her tears seep into the soil. Amanda’s arms cradle her knees tight to her body.
Above: a mother – weeping, grieving, dying.
Below: another – reaching, loving, living.
Green shoots cover her fragile form. Mother is bonded with daughter.
She’ll sleep on the hillside soon enough.
Kevin G. Bufton has been writing flash fiction for nearly eight years and still hasn’t got it out of his system. He lives in Birkenhead with his wife and kids, who seem to tolerate him. He writes his darkest stories wearing his brightest shirts, and believes the world could do with more rum.
Earth is a pretty strange place. These beings are only interested in destroying each other and their planet. Their machines constantly belch thick black poison, clouding the view of my ship.
Oh well, I think. They can have fun while they can, because their planet won’t belong to them soon.
Mathieu Munroe is a self-taught artist and writer. You can find him loitering in his room or in tree covered areas.
A hundred years on, tumble-weeds race along deserted interstate highways and a gigantic crater tells of unimaginable destruction. As we land and take readings of the surroundings, we discover our home is barely habitable.
“At least it’s recovered more than the red planet.”
“We’ll start terraforming this one first, Adam.”
Connell wrote this late at night.
They walk among us. Amos couldn’t hold his liquor and spilled the beans. I didn’t believe him until he levitated the bottle of hot sauce on our barroom table.
Here to invade, these aliens? Nope. Earth is a galactic Tijuana. Alcohol. Drugs. Violence. Littering.
It’s boring out there, in civilization.
Joe Malone is fluent in the South Sudanese languages of Nuer and Zande.
“Granny, can I borrow your–”
“Hush, child,” said Granny Gramgrams. “West Fallingdown is on!”
Sonny was forced to construct his denture polisher without reference to actual dentures.
Later tests were… “unsuccessful.” But the polisher’s severe over-spinning counteracted the earth’s ever-worsening irregular orbit, so on the whole, it turned out ok.
“Oh no!” cried Granny Gramgrams as she watched the weather channel. “If it rains on Saturday, it’ll completely spoil the holiday picnic!”
“Don’t worry,” Sonny confidently assured her. “With my gigantic turbo fan, I can blow all the clouds away.”
That weekend, Sonny’s fan pushed Earth into an irregular orbit.
This story was based on a title suggested by Larissa Thiessen.
Kim groaned and awoke.
It was early morning, but unusually bright and hot.
Kim slipped into her bathrobe, flung open the blinds, and screamed.
A dying red sun filled the sky. Earth’s orbit was rapidly, dangerously contracting.
Kim shrieked and hammered on her speed-dial. “Tan-Hut!? I need a pre-tan NOW!”