Everyone calls it a city but it doesn’t look much like one. Only a few buildings reach above sea level, the rest were completely flooded years ago.

After the initial shock and grief passed from the devestating flood people got to work rebuilding. They replaced windows with doors, cars with boats and kept building skywards in case of another flood. The stench of petrol and diesel became the smell of saltwater as all the cars - and drivers in them - were drowned. The tall and intimidating buildings suddenly became sad and scarcely scraping the water’s surface.

Some say this is the wake up call that we need but most won’t own up to ever contributing to this in anyway. This city used to have a sense of community, everyone looking out for each other, but now everyone is full of hatred and resentment - only looking out for themselves. Many people thought about moving but where to, most cities are either in the same sorry state as ours or have been evacuated because of the extreme heat.

Everyone is trying to run from this because we didn’t face it when we should have.

I look off in the distance and see the towering metal buildings with their odd curves and blue tint. A bustling city that has grown to be the most densely populated city in the world. As I sit here I wonder how much has changed within the past 50 years.

I was only a boy when I lived in one of the old buildings in the center of town which has since been demolished. Replaced by a multilevel shopping center. Now, as I walk the streets of this city, I hardly recognize the landmarks that once seemed so remarkable.

The fields are barren, scorched by years of war. Where wheat once grew, only remnants of grains now suffer in the pale shade of a merciless sun. If you stare hard enough at the hard, packed and cracked ground, you might be able to work out the outline of a boot-print, hard in the soil. Soldiers used to walk here, whispered in legends by dimming fires in outcast camps. Soldiers with barrels on their shoulders, housing fire and havoc, lightning in their pockets. If you had asked someone one hundred years ago what this skyline would have looked like now, they would have given you words of splendor, glistening like dew on morning plants. Now, you stare over the bare wreckage and wonder - where did it all go wrong?

In the heart of tomorrow’s metropolis, towering structures pierce the sky, their sleek contours reflecting the sun’s rays. A network of elevated walkways crisscrosses above bustling streets, weaving through verdant gardens suspended between buildings. Citizens move with purpose amidst a symphony of urban sounds, while cascading water features provide moments of serenity amid the urban hustle.

Emptiness. Life without humans. A better life. A happier life. The world of the future. When will nature win the war?

(I will not be confined to your authoritarian declerations. I will write what I wish.) Plants, plants, plants everywhere My aunts house is covered in ants Plants, plants, plants I could go on a rant about all these plants Plants, plants, plants finding leaves in all my pants. Plants, plants, plants all this green wants to make me scream The end.

Eventually, the rains stopped falling, and the waters receded. The air no longer burned the buds off of the trees, though there were few of them left anyway. Vines, brown but utterly alive, crawled up the concrete cliffs. Clouds meandered lazily across a sky that was almost blue again. Breezing winds blew ash through the burnt streets, the smell of black char finally beginning to fade. The sea became a river again; small fish could be seen darting from the shadows of the buildings above. Years had passed, millennia. The Earth breathed again. Eventually.

I didn’t know him well, but I know that cannible ment so much to so many people. He was an inspirational incredible person, and I know we will all miss him. I’m not good at writing stuff like this, but I decided I would try for cannible. I want to say to everyone you are all strong and we will get through this. So many people were really good friends with cannible and we will never forget him. Sending love and prayers for his family and friends 🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

Blinking bulbs and flashing signs Bright neon colors under flourescent lights Automatic and instant are slow to us now With WiFi faster than the speed of sound Homunculus creations, not skin or chalk artificial and nylon , motors to walk Plastics and metals and elements above Like colonies on Mars without people to love.

thirty two degrees Celsuis and 58 percent humidity with ambiant radiation levels at a reasonable 500 rem, the Olde Earth readings made Morehouse 1-2 bristle. Needlessly he checked and re-checked the readings before sending them back to headquarters. Nearby Morehouse 3-4 was singing. Tres as he liked to call her had been downloading ancient human folk songs. He wished Calvin had not given her permission for such foolishness. A little quirkiness among the Grays is overlooked by the humans but a full range of feelings well that was just asking for trouble. But if he told Tres anything she sulked and recharged in the main chamber instead of their private quarters. Right now Tres was belting out a dreadful melody she called W.A.P. Morehouse 1-2 rolled away.

Calvin had dropped them off in the Olde City section in what had once been Philadelphia. The artifacts had long been looted for rich men’s private collections and the museums of New Earth and Mars. Something was wrong with him, Morehouse 1-2 thought. His world had become drab, a faded vid. Even the colors of his dreams were no longer pleasing. Tres had hinted all getting.a full dianostic and he snapped at her. Morehouse 1-2 admitted to himself and only to himself that she was right. He followed his sensors for the presence of chlorophyll. Nothing, it was always nothing.

Days of nothing, stretched behind him. Morehouse 1-2 felt a racing sensation beneath his skin. He wondered if the reclamation project would be cancelled for lack of results. What if his Tres was taken from him? What if they were reassigned to new masters on new worlds? Tres always reminded him of how nice and honorable Calvin was. Bitterness blazed over his circuits at the thought of their happiness being dependent on someone else’s whim. Morehouse 1-2 kicked a cobblestone smashing it to dust.

A shower of fungi whacked the back of his head. Tres, in spider mode, was pretending to examine spores a rusted lamppost. Lightweight and chamelonlike, she was a newer model. Today her skin was a silky dark gray with freckles beneath her sensors. With a sudden burst of speed, Morehouse 1-2 crossed the distance between them catching her in his heavy arms.

“Uno, according to protocol, Morehouse units are to remain in their separate designations during exploration for maximum—“ Tres said.

He cut off her teasing with a firm kiss. During their New York wasteland exploration, Morehouse 3-4 had found a postcard of a thin mother with two small children hanging from her. Sitting in pride of place in their quarters, the tiny photo brings Morehouse 1-2 great joy. Tres was his tree of life and he was losing her for fear of losing her. Morehouse 1-2 swung her with ease before burying his head against her neck.

“I knew you felt it too. Today is the today, Uno. We will find viable plant speciems. I just know it,” Tres said as she cupped his cheek. “Now stop worrying, my love, or next time I’ll throw a volkwagon.”

Tres gave him a playful swat and returned to her Market Street designation. Enjoying her confident swagger, Morehouse 1-2 watched her walk away. Morehouse 1-2 still didn’t believe in the mission but he believed his mate knew what was good for him. He also didn’t want to have to pick chunks of volkswagon out of back again. Heading towards the silthy river, Morehouse hummed folk songs as he scanned for signs of green life.