WB EARTH DAY

In 100 years Poem by Tara Harman I imagine us, coexisting with the too hot summer sun How burns our bodies and runs us dry Our lungs struggle to keep up With the demand of breathing through the heat wave The water supply wanes low While our throats beg for every last drop We are malnourished Wheat fields, fruit trees, Grandma’s vegetable garden All perished, victims of the Earth Survival dependent on lab-grown food Carefully engineered slop we now put in our bodies How we feel like machinery, rather than humans The city’s population is dropping The once vibrant streets are barren The rich have moved to Greenland, the poor have died The rest live in limbo, a state of suffering We’re too tired to socialize, to think for ourselves Without the help of mindless robots We are left to think back into the past To think that maybe we screamed louder, Fought corporations, Looked after our planet just a little bit closer We wouldn’t be here How maybe we’d be happy, how we’d live rather than survive Yet, in such an apocalyptic scenario, the worst we can do is sulk And become victims our circumstances Because even if 100 years forward, Earth is beyond damaged We still have the option to pick up the pieces

To clean plastic off the ground, rivers, lakes, and oceans To let the sun fuel us rather than fossils Why should we submit to despair when it comes to our home?

Only Ocean Fiction by Rashea McGee As we all gather around my grandmother on the boat, she talks to us about a time where everyone could walk on something called the land? She mentions how it was so much better than having to be in water all the time but that's all there is. "No one paid attention to global warming," she grumbles to herself. My grandmother always hated being on the boat and stated that land was better, easier.

But, I think she's just crazy, there's always only been the ocean.

Earth Day Poem by Joey Knizner When the fields dry and burn— When the air is black and the wind no longer turns— When we drain the oceans to sate the thirst of a data center— When the plants die and the trees sigh— When the factory smog suffocates the stars— When climate change becomes climate changed— When the only green on Earth Day are greenback notes— Will it have been worth it?

To exploit the only home we had?

Tipping Point Fiction by Mary Pat Zink “How did it get to this point?” I try to ask aloud, but the thick smog chokes out my words. “As far as I can tell, I am the last human alive. The string of catastrophes that plagued us have finally come to a calm. But the destruction is complete. Oh, how did we end up to this point? We were warned of climate change and the harm we were causing to the planet. Yet we did not listen. So instead, we were forced to notice. First came the waters. The melting ice caps in the Arctic caused a torrent of rain and crashing waves. Then came the winds. All over wind blew sand, soil, and all debris in every which way. Then the earth quakes. These were the worst. There were people who thought they were safe and that everything would eventually calm. They thought this until the earth shook and they saw their loved ones on the other side of the house fall into the gapping earth and be swallowed by the darkness. More torments came that I cannot recall. But the earth has become so marred and maimed that I do not know anymore where I am. I started in Ohio, but now I could be anywhere from Paris to Afghanistan.

The only thing I know is that I am alone as I wander this desolate wasteland we animals known as humanity used to call home. I ask myself how we got to this point, but the answer is clear. We turned on it, so it turned on us. We choked its resources, so it choked us. We slowly killed it, so it retaliated by mercilessly slaughtering us.”

Happy Earth Day!

The Year is 2126 Poem by Josh Mansu Plastic pollution covers the earth To get to water, you have to walk miles across plastic vortices Our bodies have more microplastics than ever Our Earth is losing its greens All of what makes it a home Sea creatures are going extinct every single day We are running out of clean water and food Was your plastic bottle, your plastic straw, that important?

Was all of your plastic worth it?

Rage of Iran Fiction by Avione DeVond June 10th, 2026 A big storm was coming. they named it Hurricane Iran--the first storm predicted to hit all 50 states. It was around 3:12 AM--the devil's hour— and packed up in Donald Trump's office was the elites. Hegseth, Noem, Patel, and Trump—all ignorantly playing around with not a concern in the world.

Hegseth, doing what he does, picked up his glass, filled to the brim with a '63 Singani and said, "Well. It’s gonna be a lot of bodies after this storm.

Suckers."

Noem, like the puppet she is, sat underneath the portrait of Andrew Jackson so she could stay close to D.T, snickering at Hegseth’s stupidity.

There was no preparation. There were no plans. They were "elite." Surely the storm would pass over them. Little did they know the storm wouldn't hit the 50 states; it would only go to one place—the capital. As 4 am approached, the deafening calm before the storm plagued the hallways of the Capitol. Kash decided to play music, a peculiar action for a time in need of panic. Walking to the record player in the corner, Kash put on Robert Johnson's “Me and the Devil Blues”—such a fitting song for their impending dismay.

There was one person who was dead silent: D.T. For the first time in over a year, he had nothing to say. 407 days of anarchy, war, and bloodshed and he had not one word to utter.

"Sir, you don't think the storms coming.” The puppet, I mean, Noem said.

"No! it’s only going to the poor areas" Trump exclaimed. "The ghettos will be wiped out, making room for the golf courses, casinos, everything we could ever want!" Three minutes after his last statement, there was a sound--something like thousands of dying children. The storm was here.

Drunkenly, Hegseth slurred, "Oh shit, y'all don't hear that?!" As they got up, inching closer to the door, suddenly, the doors busted open, water

rushing through the Capitol halls. They were all being washed away— away from the glory, away from the riches, just swept away.

After what seemed like hours and many miles, they landed themselves in an inland city, where they were the only occupants.

“Oh God! Mr. President! You have to help us!” Noem shouted, running around the stretch of land, scratching herself.

Sitting on a rock, soaked with water and shame, Trump once again said nothing. Where was his five-million-dollar gold card to save him?

Nowhere—no one was coming to save them.

As Americans everywhere calmly stayed indoors and braced for the Category 5 made it—unharmed and unphased—the capital of the U.S.A. was gone, the so-called elites were gone.

America can now heal and rebuild. That’s the rage of Iran.

What Happens?

Poem by Tori Orbegozo What happens when the bees go away?

When they all die and stop spreading pollen When our food stops growing, and our crops shrivel What happens when the Earth gets too hot?

When storms become too strong, and the oceans rise When extreme heat waves make it intolerable to be in the sun What happens when construction destroys forests?

When the lack of trees makes clean air impossible When habitats are demolished, and animals have nowhere to survive What happens when you continue to ignore the problem?

When you feed into capitalism and fast fashion When you throw away everything instead of donating When you tell yourself there is nothing you can do You are the problem. I am the problem We are the reason the Earth is dying You won’t care until it directly affects you Until you experience food insecurity and go hungry Until you aren’t able to trade convenience for life That’s when it will matter, when it is already too late

Haikus in the Apocalypse Poem By Margaret Utley Our world is dying; there's no use reversing now.

Our greed destroyed us, moved us past the brink into the fiery freezing death they had warned of.

All that is left to do now is kindly ration and pray it ends soon.