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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2127892
by Weta
Rated: E · Fiction · Sci-fi · #2127892
a work in process.. post apoclyptic... scifi..
We stopped writing. that's what changed our race and took us into the cold years. There was no ultimatum issued, no edict came from on high handed down through the pope, imam or rabbi. But we stopped, newspaper and printed works reached their peak in the mid 1900's and the decline came quick and fast from their in. Then we were blessed with the mobile phone and a two hour conversation was bled down into a series of text msgs and my the mid 2000's a series of hieroglyphs sent through cyber space.

The internet provided relief fro a long while, but then the technology went from being freely and cheaply available to restricted and expensive. The novels we now consume are that from our colonies on Mars, Of course no longer colonies but a Nation in it's own right. Once accessible now kept just out of reach and well protected.

the oil crisis had long since past, peak oil had happened and with all of the anticipated problems and many that had not been accounted for. Earth had not thought about the disease break out as even the most common of vaccines relied on this most finite mineral and for mush of our technology it was to late.

The damp towel was handed to her out of habit, but still with a smile, the action however did not break the woman's gaze. She was waiting for the sea to rise. the last of the great Antarctic continent had broken last night and all that was left were icebergs not large enough to sink the Titanic. She had been waiting for this for a long time now, her mother had expected to see it in her life time. Her mother had travelled frequently on a plane. The last public flight was in 2067. He had found his place beside her now and they sat in vigil understanding that the world was about to change completely for the longest of times.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2127892