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.
The saucers appeared at 12:15 pm on Feast Day, when we celebrate victory over body shaming and our collective morbid obesity.
The saucers searched for intelligent life, abundant natural resources or a population able to power their work force back home.
The saucers left at 12:16 pm on Feast Day.
Chelsea Roberts on most days can be found writing essays and short stories at pastpaperanswers.com
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.
Despondent about the Earth’s ecological state, an old, grey scientist named Arthur Quisling entered his six-by-eight, pyramid-shaped Dimensional Flier. In search of better universes, his yellow ship, which was capable of elongating and navigating through celestial holes, left our flawed planet behind.
Acclimated to Armageddon, the Earth awaited its fate.
Bob McNeil is a writer, spoken word artist and illustrator of some modest renown. Influenced by the Beats, he attempts to address the needs of our human mosaic.
He chose two wheels, not four, for his commutes to and from work, citing improvement in health and environmental concerns.
When he started dating a co-worker, he worried she’d find him cheap.
Instead, she embraced his philosophical outlook and their love deepened as they wheeled a bicycle built for two.
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She delights neighbourhood cats with her singing.
A cold, cloudy morning provokes action. Everyone has decided to hug a tree in a frantic effort to keep warm and connected. Yet all the trees are just standing there with arms folded, not wanting to engage.
It’s an awkward dance. Suddenly, rain falls and people flee. Only trees remain.
Linda Nathaniel is a teacher from Sydney, Australia, who has had poems published in both Hemispheres and seen her play go from page-to-stage.
They cut down every tree around the swamp and left them to rot.
The experts said the downed trees would make good habitat for wild animals, that it was good for the environment.
Next summer the water got too hot. Ducks and geese left. Herons left.
The swamp dried out.
Joanna M. Weston is married and has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, “Those Blue Shoes”, has been published by Clarity House Press. Her poetry, “A Summer Father”, was published by Frontenac House of Calgary. Her eBook, “The Willow Tree Girl”, is available through her blog
She explained to me that produce was essential to progress. “Science?” she would say. “Show me science on an empty stomach!”
Farming was her calling. Everything else, she said, didn’t really matter.
A twist of fate brought me, undeserving, through the famine, left alone to carry her message of life.