Two hyperactive squirrels chitter-chattered as they scampered around a picnic table.
“I’m disappointed,” one remarked. “Our old homeplace is not at all like I remember it from when we were kits.”
“I agree,” the other replied. “It seemed to be so much taller before it lost its leaves and bark.”
John H. Dromey’s short fiction has been published in Mystery Weekly Magazine and over one-hundred-fifty other venues.
My children are always curious to look at pictures of my childhood, the days before The Change.
“Mommy, what are you eating in that picture? Is that real fruit?”
Humanity’s plight on earth might’ve started with the bite of an apple, but sadly, it wouldn’t get to end with one.
Samantha is a reluctant 50-word author who write this to prove something to her mother and grandfather. She is a fierce advocate regarding climate change and our planet.
One of the strongest of his kind, Jude was one of only a few left. He had resorted to means of survival he’d never even considered centuries before.
But the humans weren’t the only race to ignore the dangers of climate change. Now the vampires were nearly out of food.
Chad Bunch writes speculative fiction from the suburbs of Saint Louis. He is going to publish a novel this year if it kills him! You can find some his other nonsense at diaryofmadness6719293.wordpress.com
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.
We moved West for the smoke. That wasn’t the reason, but the reality in our lungs. We didn’t have fires back East. We had sarcasm. Which wasn’t a problem there. We paid our taxes where the air is clear enough to see acid rain, where springtime storms devour marble cemeteries.
JR Walsh writes in landlocked Idaho, but itsjrwalsh.com floats everywhere.
The touch of your lips
An intoxicating kiss
Cool as water
Calms my simmering heart
“When I was your age, those lyrics would have been about fire. Love was always on fire.”
“That’s morbid, mom,” she says. She’s at that age.
But that’s how it was before the world burned.
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.
In company of mistletoe, fungi, moss, and lichen
the giant stretched forth its mighty limbs
and ring by ring outlived those special eyes
which once reflected their acorn treasure.
The woodsmen stayed their axes
and turned to stare at fallen titans
bearing ugly damning emblems
red with blood.
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.
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.
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.