Flash Fiction: Post-Apocalyptic8 August 2016
PROMPT 6 – Post-Apocalyptic: The world we know has ended. What next?
By Eliza Shallard
The thick smog that covered most of the outer city was thin here but toxic enough that everyone had left. Stacks of debris littered most street corners. The perfect looting spot.
She zipped through each pile, glancing around for anything useful and light. She picked up any clothing never mind size but left the larger shoes. Grabbed canned food but nothing that might rot. Took batteries but not broken tech. Her makeshift backpack was soon stuffed.
As an afterthought, she picked up a few toys she saw on her way back toward base. She had to keep some fun alive.
By Seth Robinson
The ‘Fritz’ of 2017 left Danny Dumont out on a limb. One day, all had been fine and dandy, .gifs kept the people laughing, memes summed up all worldly knowledge in a nutshell and Facebook dictated the course of history. Now, just a few short months after the great internet crash and the world had regressed. Danny had been forced to break out his wallet and his address book, no longer able to live through his phone. For the first time in years he’d stretched the muscles in his neck. His eyes widened and he gasped. He saw the sky.
SEEN BARDER DAYS
The end of the world has come and the cult of Shakespeare is finally dead. Overpriced reprints flaccidly fall apart at the spine and spontaneously combust. Spurts of fire appear between closed covers, resolutely crisping away the alphabetised lists of Anglo-centric names on reference lists. Rehearsal rooms collapse, crushing the hopes (and bodies) of actors working on yet another boring, all-white Universal Adaptation. Dregs of cold coffee boil and spill over onto the laps of directors pitching another definitive Radical Retelling. Listen: it’s the end of the world and unfamiliar words are whispering a newly liberated canon.
Listen: it’s beautiful.
LIFE AFTER EARTH
Since the Earth exploded, being immortal has become rather dull. There are not nearly as many frightened peasants in the abyss of space as there were in Eastern Europe. I do spend far less time flapping away from toothless yokels shaking pitchforks but there are also no strapping youths or comely maidens for me to seduce and then juice. There is also an unfortunate lack of sinister castles and, so far, nowhere to lurk. All in all, I am not terribly impressed by the cosmos and I welcome the company of any surviving astronauts out there. Even the ugly ones.