Letter from 2084

by Mike Jenkins

We are the flood-refugees, the new nomads; except, it is not by any choice of ours.

   We are all inhabitants of Cantre’r Gwaelod now, lost cities under the sea. All citizens of Capel Celyn, though it wasn’t just a callous government in London which caused this demise, but all powers everywhere who ignored years of warnings.

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2050. Letter to a Daughter.

by Stephen Robert Harris

Well love, here I am on top of Mynydd Bwllfa in the pouring rain, hot and sweaty as usual, taking down yet another bloody wind turbine. We’ve been up here for months now and still there’s dozens of the buggers left to go – still the scrap’s worth a fortune and the pay’s good, so I guess I shouldn’t moan. On a bad day (like today) it all seems a bit pointless – I mean they knew they’d never produce enough power to make a difference but they built them anyway, a bit like digging a hole just so you can fill it in later, but a lot (a lot!) more pricey – but as I say, the pay’s good and God knows I need the work, what with you away in Uni and your Mam’s regen treatment to pay for.

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