Things start well.

I’d look at the Alps and I’d try and make them a bit more triangular, y’know, like how you’d draw a mountain is you were 7 years old. All peaks would be snow capped.

The grass would be greener and the sky would be bluer.

Nations would suddenly  start finding gold seams in the most unusual places. Poor countries reliant on labour would suddenly have more internal wealth, and more to export.

The armies of the world would be puzzled to find that every warhead they fire is a dud.

Cold fusion is suddenly discovered, it was a lot easier than previously thought. The scientific community wonders why we’d had so much trouble with it in the first place.

The poles begin to cool, the arctic refreezes. Water levels descend.

Observatory crews look up one evening to find that the constellations now actually look like the objects they supposedly represent. Orion hunts a rabbit across the sky.

All is well. Better, perhaps, than it has ever been.

A thousand years pass.

Triangular mountains aren’t appealing any more. They’re boring and predictable. Once again the weather begins to take its toll, and mountains begin to reform, decade by decade, becoming the scraggy  hunks of rock they once were.

But the process is too slow. Like watching paint dry. Something else is needed.

Nearby residents begin to hear a rumbling deep beneath the earth. They notice smoke coming from a nearby peak. The village is evacuated. A day later the top of the mountain explodes. Glowing Magma flows thickly down the mountainside. The green fields are turned white with ash.

The village is destroyed but it will be rebuilt.

There’s a Monsoon in the Kalahari.

There is an earthquake in Manchester. Hardly anyone dies.

The next day an army tests a new weapon. They are shocked to see it work. The blaze the explosion ignites a forest. The smoke billows from its embers, the same dull red as the fumes above a distant rumbling volcano, ready to erupt again.

-Thom