Escape with me?

Speculative fiction has never been my thing. But this moment in time--the relentless barrage of terrifying news every day--has sent me out on a journey into the unknown...

Starting Over

It was decided: All the land was to be given back to the first inhabitants (or what remained of them). Everyone else was to be kept in a state of suspended animation until one or another of the Councils of Elders opted to claim them.

The AI’s were still giggling (or doing their mechanized equivalent) at their cleverness.

It was easy to make the initial division, a simple matter of analyzing mitochondrial DNA. Everyone’s genetic info, after all, was already in the databanks. No one had the time or opportunity to object. A signal simply went out on all the cell phones, and virtually everyone on the planet had one by then. Only the infants were immune—but, then again, each of the Councils put out a warm welcome for every infant still on the timeline. Infants were wanted, any ethnicity, any color. The Elders, male and female and in between, awaited them with open arms.

Photo by Boudewijn Huysmans on Unsplash

There was a catalogue instantaneously compiled of prospects for reanimation. At first it seemed that the Elders were going to be just as unwise as all the oppressors had been in their preference for youth and beauty. But the built-in safety controls put a stop to that foolishness before it could even start.

Points were assigned for attributes still out of reach for the AI’s: Wisdom and emotional intelligence. Creatively based curiosity paired with ethical judgment. Taste. Innovation and originality. The desire to nurture and collaborate. An aspiration to be a force for good.

A surprisingly small number of people made the cut for reanimation. They came from all walks of life and all cultures. They had a broad range of aptitudes (some were simply gifted at thinking or feeling but bereft of what used to be called marketable skills). They were allowed their memories of what came before: it was the only way to make sure they’d be wise.

They blinked their eyes, looked around—shed whatever tears needed shedding, and got to work.

As a group, they loved the Earth and the life it supported just as much as they loved themselves. They spoke words of praise to the water, the air, the rocks and the sky. They sat beneath the stars at night and sang the songs they remembered.

With the human population so radically reduced, the Earth suddenly seemed like a very large place, like a macro-organism suffering from thousands of flesh-wounds.

The second-chance people longed to bring healing—to bring the ravaged beauty and abundance of the natural world back to life again. They planted food and flowering things from seeds they gathered, mixed colors from plants and minerals, and gave praise in words in whatever language was theirs in the Before Times. They were, as a group, so in tune with one another that language wasn’t always needed. They projected kindness and goodwill. They were both discerning and trustworthy. They were able to express their vulnerability.

…to be continued?

Here’s a brand-new poem, no doubt in need of polishing. I hope you’re finding ways to cope. Ways to stay safe. Ways to survive. I’m doing everything in my power to send love out into the world. I’ll be turning out on No King’s Day, on March 28th. I know it’s not enough to change the course of history—but all of us need to do what we can now. To raise our voices and take a stand.

The Veil

I dreamed last night of babies
who walked and talked and look just like
their middle-aged selves.

I wanted their love. How did the child I was
presage this person I am now?

Can I be an elder to the seedling I was?
All the DNA that makes me who I am
was there at the start.

My age-spotted hands with their loose skin
and gnarled knuckles lurked inside
my silken new-born self.

Was my infant brain sensing poetry
even before I spoke my first words?

I can remember that colors were sometimes
so beautiful that they hurt. And white moths
hovered in such a way that it seemed
they were speaking to me.

Maybe I was touched with a kind of madness
from the start, and it plagues me still,
a secret deformity I’ve tried my whole life long
to hide inside a veil of illusion—

A veil woven of words.



Copyright ©️ 2026 by Barbara Quick

♥️