A time to every purpose, by Liza Oliver

 Nell nuzzled her head against me.  I rubbed her nose. Her eyes fixed on me and I swear she knew. It was barely dawn.  Everyone but Jim was asleep.  He insisted the night watch suited him but I think he likes to watch out for us.  He says us young ones are the hope for the future but I don’t know.  We’ve lost too many. 

He came to meet me at the gates.  ‘You taking her out?’  He nodded his approval and patted her neck.  He turned the winch and the metal barricades opened.  Nell stamped her feet, anxious to get going.  It hadn’t affected the horses or the dogs.  For some reason our natural companions had been spared, and we were grateful for this small mercy. 

I rode without a mask.  I breathed in a sharp lungful of sweet air, aware of the risk as I did so.  In the freedom of the morning with a horse beneath me and an open field ahead of me, it was one I was content to take.

Jim nodded at me to go on.  I felt fear run through me.  No-one ventured out unless they had to.  Not after Simon had returned, barely alive.  

I kicked at Nell’s flank and felt the sudden jerk of movement.  We were away, kicking up clumps of damp earth, a faint mist cooling my face as she galloped on.  I saw a pack of dogs in the distance.  They looked well nourished.  There were clearly pickings to be had.  Pickings I didn’t want to dwell on.  One of them approached me, its tail up, expectant.  We needed dogs, good ones. He trotted along beside me, looking up at me every now again, panting a smile.  Today was not the day though.  When I paid him no attention, he gave up on me and ran back into the wastes. 

 I pulled on the reins, turning Nell onto the road south. It was the road Eve and I had ridden in on all those months ago.  When we’d found the settlement, they’d welcomed us.  We both knew it was because of Nell.  What use was there for a half-ruined man and his pregnant wife?  But one horse had carried the vote for both of us. 

*

The metal groaned as Jim opened the gates.  ‘It’s alright lad, I’ll take her now.’  I dismounted.  I didn’t look at Nell again.

*

Eve was in the communal room, nursing our son.  He pulled at her nipple, his fist slapping at her breast in frustration.  I sat down next to her, putting my arm around her fragile shoulders.

‘Is it done?’ she asked.  I nodded.  We would eat well tonight.  Her eyes filled with tears.  Then she looked down at our son.  ‘Good,’ she said.

copyright©Lisa Oliver

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A glimpse of what may happen, by Peter Morford

A few years ago our ancient sea wall was raised by two metres. When the Ministry decided that we would still be unsafe from the rising waters they built a second wall, 6 metres higher, a hundred meters out to sea. Even this may not be high enough.

This year we have endured record temperatures. Today at 9am it’s already 40 Celsius and I know it will 50 by lunchtime. Spring high tides are due and the overheated air will bring us a hurricane. The hazard is so widedspread that the Government have ordered a total evacuation of the endangered areas.

I decided to stay it out and think I am probably the only man left in this town . I’m sure that my cottage with its 2ft thick walls will survive. Just keep calm.

The harbour is full of yachts and fishing vessels, sheltering from the storm. The dock gates are closed. I walk short, exhausting,distance to the train station to get a better view. The offshore wind generators are turning very slowly. They will stop altogether when the wind rises. On the horizon a container ship moves slowly eastwards...

A driverless train is at the station. A man stands by an open door. He’s yelling and at first I cannot understand him. Over and over again. Eventually I can hear him shouting, “It’s all wrong..all wrong…wrong.”

“What is?”

“This weather. God is angry. He’s going to drown us. It’s all those fossil fuels and windmills and automation causing the trouble.” Before I could say anything he steps onto the train and the door slides shut.

Really feeling the heat now I return to the harbour and walk along the wall. Below me is a narrow finger of beach. A ragged man is digging in the hot sand. I watch him scoop up a stone. He studies it closely. He tests it with his teeth, licks it and then, as if satisfied, places it carefully on a small pile.

I ask him what he was doing. “Aint it obvious? I’m building a sea wall. The one’s we’ve got won’t be enough to stop the storm.” He discards the rounded remains of an old brick. and hurls it towards the incoming waves.

I’m nearly back at my house when the robotaxi draws up and stops by me. The door slides open. A voice greets me, “Would you like a trip to the lighthouse Mr Baines?” I get in. The safety harness wraps itself round me and we set off. The screen in front of me tells me that my fare has been collected, that it’s 42 degrees outside but a chilly 25 in the car. An ad for anti heatstroke follows and I note down the details.

A debate on Facebook concerning Boris Johnson

Peter Shilston: Are not Boris Johnson's travails in 2021 an example, in the finest traditions of classical Greek tragedy, of hubris being inevitably followed by nemesis?

 David Gwyn: Yes they are, but he's not Agamemnon and neither is he Oedipus. He's a character from Attic comedy dragging his unfeasibly large phallus with him without being particularly funny; and so far as the tragedy goes, his hamartia is neither a flaw in an otherwise noble character nor a random error, but a course of action undertaken for the wrong reasons and with consequences disastrous for the rest of us. It's as if the city of Thebes was punished AFTER Oedipus's actions are discovered while the motherf*cker in question goes off with the lotus-eaters. 

Definition, by Annabelle Jane Palling

    Is this grief? This iron lung?

This plummeting, visceral mine cage inside

This panicked fumbling for blunted keys

This encroaching wilderness of time?

Is it?

This curdled bellyful of hopes and needs

This fury at nonchalance – most casual of cruelties –

How dare it exist –

This excised patch on the tip of your tongue?

This knowing that you would pay this price –

All of it – over and over again -

Is it grief?