Olympos Mons split open like a god vagina and magma crept over its labial cleft. Martians ran in panic while the green philosopher perched on porous stone, pointing his finger skyward, swept by and said, “I told you so.”
The river of fire poured on, throwing up great slow heat shimmers and bursts of steam from extinguished bodies. The green philosopher on his stone watched the glass cities crumple with slow grace to rejoin the earth. His large purple eyes blinked slowly.
The lava was sluggish, almost stagnant. On his stone the green philosopher, antennae drooped with thought, chinned his hand. He saw the burning now and the wasteland his land would become. He looked at the pale sky and said, “So this is the price of being right.”
Inert on his stone, lodged in the stagnant river of heat, the green philosopher waited for the lava to cool. He looked at the pale sky and said, “So this is the price of being right.” He heard a chirruping sound. He held out his hand, and peered at the thing that occupied it. A common household pest. The cockroach. It waved its antennae. The green philosopher smiled. “Our people take great pains to eradicate you, and you keep coming back. There’s hope for us yet.”