-The-Dancer-
by sfalice

Comment:
Neato, love the spine... what is it actually?

Andesite
by 2mccs

Comment:
Ooooh!

Brown Out
by Cyrilda

Comment:
haha

The 29 Cent Sale - All item in photo were 29 cent with coupon
by ladpupmoe

Comment:
Ooh I hope my shoprite will run that sale

unstable
by PennyStreet

Comment:
Congrats Penny! Great catch and perfect title!

Raindrops keep falling (and I'm dead)
by PenelopeK

Comment:


The absence of day-end seagulls was acute. The railings and bulkheads that they joyfully decorated were now underwater, being swished clean by the bay's unfailing agitator. A triumphant double flag could still be spotted protruding from a cupola, signalling the existence of the now invisible boathouse below. The broken weathervane atop the flagpole resisted the winds. It pointed straight to Hell.

Following the most recent storm, pinwheels of dead fish could be seen swirling belly-up, their damaged bodies catching on submerged tin ledges near the marina. The downpour had slowed to intermittent pitters of rain, and although there was no sun visible to set, an eerie rose-gold hue fought to emerge from behind gunmetal clouds. Its shimmer jaundiced the silver fish scales, but did not warm the surrounding water.

The ruined fish were but a smelly synecdoche of the scene. Listing skiffs, clamboats, and chubby little tugboats alternated with catamarans, runabouts and sloops in starburst patterns, their sterns or bows leaning in to drunkenly kiss. The movement was radial, maintaining formation, choreographed by insistent underwater eddies. Every once in a while, a zombie boat would smack into a submerged section of dock, creating a winceful, screeching wallop. The one grace was that there was no one left to hear.

The Stroll
by timfythetoo

Comment:

The calm and swaddling fog belied the strength of the storm now withdrawing its harrow from the sea cliff. Yet the ocean itself still struggled. The waves below thrashed jagged rocks, sending up spews of enthusiastic white water to intermingle with the gravid mists. The beach, dunes and bordering marshlands had hurriedly transformed into features of sea floor, barely visible in the persistent churn.

Further inland, freshwater fish clustered belly-up in hybrid tide pools, capitulating to the torrent of brack and brine which had poured into their pond, with the resulting effluent forcing meadow grasses into a seaweed-sway. Here no cricket chirps. There are no chastising calls from black-capped chickadees, nor squirrels to squawk back. Here where the tibias and fibulas of tree branches litter the muck and randomly stab the swirling snarls of winterberry and buckthorn, the only sounds are infrequent gurgles from the newly deluged gopher holes.

But this was not a bad day. Nor was it a typical one, if only for the reason that we had travelled beyond climatic conventions to a world of few weatherly habits. The growing ocean would continue to phagocytose its shores, erasing aged demarcations. Lazy hills become long sandbars. Repurposed cliffs gruffly greet the sea, their ledges on the precipice of extinction. Upon these embankments, we sashay defiantly, inhaling the damp, low sky into our lungs. The trees do not lean toward us in admiration. They cling to the edge with all their might. Like giant mangroves, they begin to equilibrate salt water in order to survive.

'Merica
by RKT

Comment:


Although the Camps had been established several years before the floods came, fate had been written in the sky long before, in fluffy chemtrails. At that time, sustainable farmers pointed fingers at urban entitlement and petroleum purveyers pushed flatus theory, but the truth was closer to what reverberated beneath tin foil helmets. The environment was being intentionally targeted.

It happened while intercontinental travel was still permitted, in fact, the price of jet trips had hit an absurd nadir. Cheap flights flew in the face of incredible inflation, flippant cuts of FHA assistance and a fundamental food insecurity. Aircraft criss-crossed in close quarters without fear of collision, owing to the advanced echolocation technology that superceded plain old radar. And flight times were wildly reduced once we learned to pre-pressure the air in the plane's predicted path, neutralizing the sonic boom carpet.

Each one of these jet planes might as well have been spewing contrails in the shape of skull and crossbones. Through the harvesting of oilspill-eating bacteria, new amphipathic fuel stabilizers had been developed which increased the half-life of avtur several fold. While this technological frugality made for very cheap plane tickets, the novel nanocarbons in the eventual breakdown products ate the earth̢۪s ozone layer for breakfast. Several biochemical engineers were paid handsomely for their silence.

Ladder to Freedom
by westford

Comment:


Once we learned that all air travel had been halted, a feeling of certain doom arose. It was difficult to imagine getting home without a plane, although this grew more and more ironic as the water levels rose. We should have been able to float home. With the ever-wetter weather, the ground at Camp became a perma-muck, an endless squelching ooze with a voracious hunger for sandals and shoes. We belted ours onto our feet with clumsy bits of twine and rags in attempts to combat the vacuum. In time, we would grow nostalgic for that muck.

With the insidious rise of water, past ankles, then knees, groups of us would frequently wade-stumble out to the Camp wall as if mass-somnambulating. We would arrive and just look at it... longingly, lustily, indignantly, reproachfully. But this torrid affair was unrequited - the wall bore no reciprocal imprint of our existence. The structure was an odd hodgepodge of successive vertical barriers, about 20 feet high. The ground level consisted of massive boulders, upon that, masonry, upon that, chain-link with razor wire, and at the very top, a fine mesh in a wooden grid, stabilized by fat wooden poles. Rumor was that the seemingly delicate netting at the top was electrified or poisoned, that it couldn't be touched or hurdled. Mercifully, that rumor was as much of a lie as anything else the government had told us.

Wishes sometimes do come true
by Dennisheckman

Comment:
Apologies for my ignorance - to me it looked like a bright blue tarp and seemed too small to be ice. As soon as rollover happened, I checked in and noticed that the other commenters had more of a clue ;-) Oh well.