“Stinkbug Apocalypse” by Jean Wolfersteig
Rosalie took one look at the tarot cards this morning and gazed up at me. “Molly,” she said, “I need to get away from you.” Then she bolted down Psychic Alley.
Rosalie took one look at the tarot cards this morning and gazed up at me. “Molly,” she said, “I need to get away from you.” Then she bolted down Psychic Alley.
That gesture, that tightening of the hand, such a simple thing, simple but it reassures me.
Retirement day. Those words had resonated over my career, if you could even call it that . . .
The year is 2078. Rampant consumption has succeeded in burning a hole through the ozone layer.
“Droplets of liquid methane began to splash on Glin’s bald head . . .”
The year is 2078. Rampant consumption has succeeded in burning a hole through the ozone layer.
“The chimpanzee with a bandaged forehead grabbed a hypodermic needle . . .”
I was one of Descent.com’s earliest customers, and surely I was first to inquire into a gap. It was only three generations into the future, this gap . . .