One writer's experiment to tackle any subject his friends come up with.

The Broken Bridge and the River Beneath
Dear Future:

I’m writing to make you real. To seize onto you. To force you into existence despite impossible odds. I want to believe you are out there. I want to believe that a planet that has aborted half of itself and abandoned sexual reproduction is somehow not in cardiac arrest. I want to know that there’s something more for the remaining women than living out the death throes of this world.

But that certainty is not going to come. I know. The past two years have seen nothing but struggle. Evolution has not performed any great intervention. With what little sperm that survived the Great Thaw, we are able to bear girls for a while longer. But we can barely manage these efforts for ourselves. We can do nothing for the animal population. Our planet cannot feed itself.

The Drowning World
I saw the slow swallowing of shorelines and the quick erosion of cliffs. I smelled wet earth turning to pungent mould. I felt the saturated ground become a swamp, tasted acrid decay in everything that required light and air, and heard the downpour’s steady hiss, so unceasing that it became inaudible.

Denver under

The Drowning World, Chapter Two
I hold up the frameless polarized lens and squint out over the water. Three miles out from the coast, you can just make out the tops of Wells Fargo and a couple of other moldering structures. On our few salvage forays, my eyes followed their edges down, down, where blue turns to black. Denver is still there, a new Atlantis sleeping beneath us.

Deus In Machina
Captain Ted Macallan awoke to the french horns of the Brandenburg Concerto, while the bright scent of tangerine gathered in his nose and a cool mist quickened his skin.
His mouth was rawhide, however, and the faint glow from the cocoon’s interior was a visual assault sending barbed assailants down his optic nerve. You never get used to induced hibernation, he thought as he lay with his eyes closed, tightening and releasing various muscle groups. A faint buzz tickled the edge of consciousness at base of his skull. And I think they’ve given up trying to abate the aftereffects.