2050: the land is too dry, or too wet.  Little grows.  We sit in our Ivory Tower, measuring, monitoring, allocating rations; creaming a little off the top for ourselves.

Khaki-clad figures under red parachutes drop from the sky.  They advance on our building.  Security yields.

Lizard tongues flick across our screens as they scrutinise our figures.

“Take me to your leader,” one says.

“Gladly,” I reply. (Will you eat him?  I wonder.)

Two years later: crops thrive, no-one’s hungry.  There’s a downside though.  They nibble on live rats at their desks and will eat your pets when you’re not looking.

©2018 Chris Hall