The world outside had turned into a forest. She had not been out in weeks and had not known, but she was running out of all food, so she tied a camo tank top over her face and stepped out. It was quiet. She walked down the stairs and outside and into it: tall trees stepping into the sky, moss beginning patchily on the street like an early beard, small red beetles, decaying logs, mud and unknown puddles of water. The supermarket was a hothouse, flowers lining the shelves. There was a purple flower that she thought had risen up from the inside of the earth, exposing the inner, shivery part of earth, the fullest and most muscled part. She held out a hand to pick it but pulled back. She went home again to open all the windows, in case the flowers would grow in themselves, perhaps winding around the radiators, up the walls, the curtain rods, nesting in the cool dank space under the sofa and behind the refrigerator. She locked the door behind her so that they would stay inside, maybe, so the secret would not overflow into other apartments, though it was all over the world. She put her keys in her jacket pocket and left.Read more "Green at the End"
When We Go the robots are busy cleaning up after us: the dust in the rugs, the dander on the couch the tangles of hair left in the blankets the corpses piled in the doorway. everything is sucked up by evidence-erasing nozzles poured into black garbage bags separated and incinerated. eventually, there will be nothing […]Read more "When We Go"
Hiya Mukherjee was born and brought up in Kolkata. She writes mostly in her mother tongue Bengali. Her work has appeared in Plato’s Caves Online and Friday Flash Fiction. She co-edits a bilingual and bimonthly blogzine called ‘Agony Opera‘. How to Hover Over a Hackneyed and Hassle-free Armageddon in Scandinavia The Lumerian Institute for Humphrey […]Read more "How to Hover Over a Hackneyed and Hassle-free Armageddon in Scandinavia"
Magicians Father raised bright tiger lilies and roses the color of the sunset, that slow, daily apocalypse. Trumpet vine and Copa de Oro, orange and gold as the wildfires that ate up our dry hills each Fall, when the wind began to howl and rattle our old wooden house. Some nights, we were a family […]Read more "Magicians"
Thomas Fucaloro is the author of two books of poetry published by Three Rooms Press, most recently It Starts from the Belly and Blooms, which received rave reviews. The winner of a performance grant from the Staten Island Council of the Arts and the NYC Department of Cultural Affairs, he has been on three national slam […]Read more "Apocalypse Preparation Check List"
I am not a survivalist. I don’t foresee a future when commercial food will not be available and food foraging will be a critical skill. The world is not going to end before the sun swells into a red giant, which won’t happen for another 5 billion years (and then there will be no Earth […]Read more "Why I Forage"
“I know we’re going to meet some day in the crumbled financial institutions of this land there will be tables and chairs there’ll be pony rides and dancing bears there’ll even be a band cause listen, after the fall there will be no more countries no currencies at all, we’re gonna live on our wits […]Read more "Winter Is Coming and There Will Be Snacks: Songs for the Solstice Apocalypse"