Ten years ago, my buddy Richard La Rosa posted an online invitation to be part of a micro-fiction contest of 101 words (or less). Here was my entry—
At The Inn, 2030
The bar was filling up quickly with people escaping the rain. It had been a year now since we’d had sun, and drinking helped displace the fear. The WorldCorp Solar Project had failed for lack of rays; ditto most outdoor food crops. And the price of hydroponic food was exorbitant since we’d run out of easy oil. But basement beer hydro-farms were still cooking from stolen power, and nobody cared as long as we stayed off the streets and out of the news. “Power to the people” some old-timer muttered as the band started tuning up. I laughed and ordered another.