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 Prophet of Oblivion
…he looked up from her lap and gazed on the features, both worn and hard, like an Indian Chief, forever stalwart in an unappreciated resolution. He noted the fresh mark on her lip, but only as a member of her ensemble of features. Over time the cuts and bruises that appeared on her face and hands had established themselves as temporary and sporadic, garnering no more thought than a pimple or uncut fingernails.