Only the poorest, most unfortunate souls go to die at Carrier’s Cross Hospital For Charitable Cases. But die they do.

The majority of their budget, therefore, must come from selling cadavers to Carrier’s Cross Butchery and Deli.

The turbine blade arced high into the evening sky over Runsfeld.  Though it was over a hundred meters long and traveling at great speed, from the ground it looked just like a petal, carried soundlessly on a capricious summer updraft.

The Republic heavily regulated all pollutant energy sources, generally reserving them for government use, and without cheap fuel, it was too expensive to run the machines that could repair the wind farm, especially for rural Runsfeld.  Still, they needed the electricity the turbines provided.

When the errant blade finally collided with Runsfeld’s vegon cafeteria, it was nothing like a petal.

Megan loved when someone asked about her job, especially a man.

“You mean a space janitor.”

The following is a warning to all those who get bad mileage:

When the wind began, we expected a black and thunderous storm riding down from the North on its top. That was three months ago. No rain. No clouds. Nothing but the wind.

Now, we are all lashed round trees and stakes to stop us from blowing away. There is no siren song, lilting in our ears. Just the wind, wearing away at our souls.

Stanley Ash paused at the doorway. As with everything, he wanted his departure to be appropriately dramatic.

Ironically, no one saw Stanley Ash alive ever again.

The children followed their teacher into the meadow where they had their classes.  Their school desks were the rocks of the field.  Their blackboard was the open sky.  The teacher stooped to touch the grass with both hands, signaling that the morning recitation was about to start.

“Our lives are connected with the Earth.  If it sickens, so do we.  To preserve all life, we must dedicate our own lives to sustaining the health of this planet, and to our Green Republic, which guards its gardens.”

Today’s lesson would teach the children how to report polluters amongst their family members.

The group staggered out of the party, swaying violently towards the next bar. “Wait!” Janet said. “I have the GREATEST IDEA EVER!” They emerged from the tattoo parlor an hour later, fingers oozing blood. “Now our whole lives are stache bashes!”

Future history textbooks would be filled with pictures of the sinister curled mark. Some were on pennants flying above military parades. Others adorned young officers, their fingers outstretched towards state enemies. But, inevitably, the tattoos made them easy to find. As nations were brought to account, some pleaded that they hadn’t known.

But how could they not have known?

Tat. Tat. Tat.

But I was too overwhelmed with dread. Which nail would be the last?

The manatee looked down upon us with regal wisdom. The deep folds in its weathered skin, some natural, some long forgotten scars of a life lived in perpetual danger, lent an aura of hidden knowledge. This Manatee was here to teach us, or warn us, or provide one last chance to mend our ways.

Scientists were never able to satisfactorily explain how a manatee got stuck at the top of that tree.