By Alex Page
After the spores spread, and defied the nukes, and left me roaming the empty city haunted by my wife’s final fungal gurgles, I tried to join her and discovered my immunity’s true scope.
I found others chosen. We watched the rain battle concrete, tarmac give way to grass, the night sky deepen to countless stars. Eventually we heard Pan’s voice, his whispers in the leaves, and understood he’d always been speaking, ignored.
He claimed back his world, keeping us to drape skyscrapers with ivy, sow fields with flowers, gather plastic for eventual compost. Gardening, immortal, until the damage is restored.
Alex Page writes because making fantastical things up is fun.