Last September we posted a writing prompt to our social media channels. The GCM team picked the top three favorites and published them in Hard Copy 27. This is the prompt:
The year is 2035, seismologists are able to predict earthquakes and volcanic eruptions now. Tahoma is predicted to catastrophically erupt in one year’s time. Scientists expect total destruction within 25 miles of the mountain and extreme risk to human life up to 50 miles. Tell us the rest of the story.
The magazine came out in December and, as promised, we’re sharing all the submissions over 300 words online. We got five submissions in all and it was difficult to pick only three. The stories we got from this prompt are incredible. The whole thing went even better than I had hoped. A few illustrators reached out to bring visuals to the story and Elexia Johnson brought it all together in a perfect layout design. Sophie Yun Lee drew the hero image above.
We’ll definitely be doing more of these in future issues so if you have any writing prompt ideas, feel free to leave them in the comments below.
The Salmon Will Tell Us
Story by Jonny Eberle // Illustration by Amelia Kaiser
Looking out the window from her home on Salmon Beach, Amaya finds it hard to believe that soon, the sky will rain fire. She’s a scientist herself, she trusts the experts, but even so, she can’t imagine leaving when there’s still so much work to do.
The buzzer sounds. She was beginning to think they weren’t coming today.
Amaya fills her coffee mug, the lopsided one her daughter made, and tiptoes through the messy kitchen to her computer. It’s murky on the underwater camera, but she can see a dark shape on the monitor. It swims out of frame and then back in. Amaya can make out the hooked dorsal fin. It might be one of the young calves. Perhaps Astro or Biscoff. The orca glides by her camera a third time, plainly showing the jagged line along the lower edge of her eye marking. J31, better known as Tsuchi. That’s unexpected. Amaya slips on her headphones and switches on the mic.
“Welcome, honored Grandmother,” she says, reciting the traditional greeting. Tsuchi acknowledges with a chirp that the computer translates into Amaya’s headphones almost instantly.
“May the salmon be plentiful,” Tsuchi says. Amaya knows from years of research that this is a common phrase with many meanings. There is a note of anxiety in Tsuchi’s tone.
“Is everything alright?” Amaya asks.
“We have felt tremors in the deep water,” the orca says in a series of pulses.
“We know. They say the mountain will erupt soon.” Amaya shouldn’t be surprised that they know about Tahoma. These waters are their ancestral home, after all.
“We have stories from many grandmothers past,” Tsuchi says. “Of darkness, of waters that burn, of hunger. We are leaving.”
“Where will you go?”
“North, to our cousins. Farther, if we must.”
Amaya wishes she had a place to escape to. What good was predicting a volcanic eruption if government gridlock meant that months went by without a plan to get everyone to safety? Those with the means were long gone, but that left millions in the path of the volcano’s fury. Those unable to uproot or unwilling to abandon their homes. One of her neighbors down the beach is reinforcing his roof to withstand the crushing weight of ash and pumice. It won’t be enough, she thinks.
Amaya hasn’t started packing. Her emergency relocation form sits unfinished under a pile of junk mail—not that it would be processed in time. The predicted eruption is only weeks away, but she keeps finding reasons to stay, to be close to the orcas.
“When will you return?” Amaya asks.
“The salmon will tell us.” Tsuchi is 50 years old, the matriarch of her family. She is strong, but she also looks thin.
“You came to say goodbye,” Amaya says.
The orca whistles agreement. But also something else. Worry? Pity? It’s a complex language, and even after years of careful study, many of its subtleties elude her.
“You should go. Follow your mothers to colder water,” Tsuchi says.
“It’s not that simple for us,” Amaya replies. “We can’t just swim away from danger.”
There is a long pause as the three-ton whale nearly old enough to be her mother considers this.
“Yes, you can.”
Amaya hears a distant buzz through her headphones. Sonar. Tsuchi’s children and grandchildren are nearby, hunting. Preparing a feast before they embark on their journey. There is still so much Amaya doesn’t know about their histories, their relationships, their ways of knowing the world that have allowed them to survive when extinction seemed inevitable. Perhaps she should heed their advice.
“May the salmon be plentiful along the way,” Amaya says. Not a farewell, but a blessing, a letting go.
“May the salmon be plentiful,” Tsuchi echoes. Not a farewell, but a sending, a hope. And with a flash of her tail, she is gone. Amaya switches off the mic. It’s time to wake her daughter. Time to go.
The Temporary Ones
Story by Scott Roberts // Illustration by Nick Goettling
The news landed like a gut punch. March 2035. Scientists on the evening news said it flat out: Mount Rainier would erupt in a year. Not a possibility. Not a someday. A deadline.
I’d grown up under that mountain. Kayaking mornings on Case Inlet, long drives home from clinic shifts in Tacoma with its peak glowing in the distance. Once, on a hike, I buried my wedding ring in its dirt to mark an ending. I figured that was the mountain’s lesson for me. Apparently, I was wrong.
That night, the first maps hit the internet: red zones, orange zones. Tacoma landed in orange. Seattle acted relieved, though everyone knew ash didn’t care about freeway exits. House prices nosedived. Neighbors argued about whether to stay or sell.
At work, patients cornered me with questions about storing insulin “when the ash comes.” I never had good answers. Our health system handed out flyers—goggles, N95s, canned beans—but no brochure prepares you for telling your kids their school might be gone.
The city divided. Some packed boxes and rented trucks. Others stayed put, out of stubbornness or empty wallets. As a Guardsman, I knew the official script: evacuation corridors, staging areas, federal help arriving weeks late. By summer, checkpoints popped up around town. I spent drill weekends in uniform, explaining detour routes to tired families. Sometimes people listened. Sometimes they shouted in my face.
By August, downtown Tacoma felt gutted. Favorite bars shut their doors. Old friends moved north. Yet down on Ruston Way, people still grilled salmon. Kids still tore down Stadium’s hills on bikes. Life didn’t stop; it just felt thinner, stretched. Some nights I sat with my kids by the Narrows, watching the tide. It was comforting in a way—the tide didn’t care what Rainier had planned.
The countdown crept into everything. Billboards flashed numbers: 90 days, 60 days. Churches opened basements. Neighbors planted gardens that no one expected to eat from. There was grief, yes, but also these flashes of ordinary joy—backyard barbecues, kids playing tag in empty streets.
I went back and forth about leaving. My ex thought I was reckless for staying. She wasn’t wrong; the kids deserved safer ground. But my father was buried in Mountain View, and my roots felt tangled too deep in Tacoma soil. Every time I drove north, trying to convince myself it was the smart move, I’d glance in the mirror. Rainier would be there, lit up in pink or gold, and I’d turn back.
New Year’s came with fireworks over Commencement Bay. I kissed my kids at midnight, holding them longer than usual, wondering if we’d get another year.
And then March. Soldiers knocking on doors. Buses lined up at Union Station. My Guard unit ran the evacuations—hustling families onto buses, juggling orders with compassion. Some blocks looked like ghost towns, others like armed camps.
The night before the clock ran out, I walked to the water. The air smelled of salt and cold metal. Rainier stood clear, not hidden by clouds for once. Watching.
I thought about all the pieces of my life that had happened under its shadow—deployments, heartbreak, my kids’ first steps. The scientists said we had twelve hours left. But looking at that mountain, it didn’t feel like a countdown. It felt like it was reminding me: we’re the temporary ones.
The Attic
Story by Meri Holle // Illustration by Kelli Tompkins
Anna remembered exactly where she was when everything changed: standing over the kitchen sink, a ceramic bowl in one hand and a sponge in the other. By the time she noticed her phone buzzing, there were already 7 missed calls. She called her son back first. He was the one to break the news: Mount Tahoma was going to erupt in one year’s time, threatening the lives of millions and destruction of everything in a 25-mile radius.
The first time Anna saw Tahoma is a moment written on her heart. Anna’s family moved to Tacoma when she was a girl. The house they settled into was nothing special—small, with one bathroom shared among five, and a measly patch of grass to call a yard. But something special happened in that house: on Anna’s first night there, she discovered a small window in the attic that had a view of the most magical, mysterious thing she had ever seen: Mount Tahoma: the nearly 15,000-foot active volcano that loomed over the South Puget Sound from 50 miles away.
Anna would sit on the window ledge and lean her head against the cold glass. Out the window she surveyed Tahoma: shrouded in cloud or with a coat of snow or barren-looking in the dead of summer. Anna loved that the Mountain looked different nearly every time she gazed upon it. When the trees bloomed, Anna would open the old window and crane her neck beyond the green leaves of the street to see Tahoma. She would listen to the neighborhood hum and the birds sing as she watched another summer sunset clothe Her in majestic swaths of pink and purple light.
Anna’s life took her away from that house and away from Tacoma—but there was never a time where she wasn’t plotting a way back to the Pacific Northwest and back to the feeling she got when she gazed upon the Mountain. Only in her old age did she find her way back to Tacoma. She returned with one goal: to spend the rest of her days living in the shadow of Mount Tahoma.
With the news of Tahoma’s impending eruption, Anna’s children made plans for her to evacuate. Anna agreed to it, confirming itineraries and packing up the few belongings that still mattered to her.
Three months before eruption, Anna was out in her garden planting dahlia tubers. The last frost had passed, and spring was fading into summer. The neighborhood bursted with blooms: tulip trees dripping in pink, bright red hydrangeas, peonies and foxgloves lined every yard. Anna’s body was old now. Kneeling down to plant dahlias took more effort than it ever had before and left her body with a lingering soreness.
Anna had outlived her parents, her husband, and her friends. Her children were nearing middle age and her grandchildren were finding their own way. No one needed her anymore. Death was at the end of her road, and she felt close enough to see the “dead end” sign now.
Standing in her garden was when it sunk in for her, finally and truly. She couldn’t leave. She couldn’t leave her dahlias, and she couldn’t leave her Mountain—no matter the danger.
On eruption day, Anna made her way up to the attic. It took her a while—she had not ventured up the creaky stairs in years for fear of falling. In the attic she cleared a space and sat by the window. The day was clear and Tahoma stood tall in front of her. Soon Anna could hear its rumble, as though Tahoma was speaking just to her. As though Tahoma had been waiting for Anna to do this. As though Anna’s end was always meant to be like her beginning: gazing upon the mystery of Tahoma. Anna sat, face to the cool glass, and let the Mountain take her.
Houses, Homes, and Whatever’s Left
Story by Jon Aiken
It started in 2031, when seismologist Dr. Ellinor Radford was in Peru working on her book, Foretelling Tectonics. She awoke one night in a cold sweat, head spinning from a dream. The next day, against her publishers’ objections, she stopped writing and poured herself into a new obsession.
She was convinced that with the right combination of measurements, data, and A.I., predicting volcanic eruptions was possible. And after three years of trial and error, she had a working prediction device, dubbed the Nostrodome in the press.
Then, on August 29, 2034, Dr. Radford shocked the world when she predicted that the Taal Volcano near Manila would erupt. Her machine pinpointed the time and scale of the eruption within the margin of error. Not everyone heeded her warnings, but those who did were safely evacuated. Local news reports suggested she saved tens of thousands of lives.
The following year, she forecasted six volcanic eruptions. All some months away, and all coming to pass. Dr. Radford and the Nostrodome became household names.
In September of 2035, while being interviewed on live television, she made her boldest prediction yet.
“One year from today, Mount Rainier in Washington state will erupt. And it’s going to be big. My calculations suggest total destruction within 25 miles of the mountain, and extreme risk to human life up to 50 miles. It will happen, please take precautions.”
That was eleven months, three weeks, and six days ago.
I throw on my slippers, waiting for my coffee packet to dissolve. Temperature spikes near the equator crippled the bean industry and priced me out of real coffee years ago. The artificial stuff tastes okay, but it lacks any smell. That’s what I miss. The smell.
I grab my St. Helens mug and step out on my porch, taking in the ghost town that used to be Tacoma. These days, the population has mostly vanished. Those that remain are either here to support the evacuation effort or have chosen to stay.
“Bunch’a sticks in the mud,” I chuckle, sipping my artificial coffee.
I remember when the news first broke, people reacted immediately. Impulsive. Panicked. Folks sold off what they could and moved outside the danger zone. Some abandoned the state entirely. Next were the business owners and landlords. Dropping prices on everything, trying to recoup whatever they could on their investments. Turns out, a penthouse apartment in the lahar zone goes for practically nothing.
My father bought his first home here in the ‘60s, back when that was possible for the middle class. And I grew up riding bikes until the streetlights came on. Free of dangers like pyroclastic flows. And what, now I’m supposed to leave?
From my porch, I can see the mountain. Not the whole thing, of course, but a slice. A window into the future. Down the street, I see evacuation buses loading up holdouts and squatters. The last drags of Grit City escorted out the gates.
What happened to this town? We used to be tough. Resilient. We used to stand for something, but nowadays, we’ll fall for pretty much anything. I read that somewhere.
The buses hiss, rolling closer to my property. I can see the confrontation now. A shouting match between a volunteer who doesn’t want to get shot and an old man clinging to whatever’s left. What’s it worth to them? To me?
I bought my father’s house for my family. I can’t give up on it. On them.
The bus stops outside my fence, and the door swings open. A kid with safety glasses and an orange vest hops out, shouting, “Mandatory evacuation!” like he invented the term.
My wife and girls left weeks ago to stay with family up north. I don’t want to die, I know that. But what do I want to live for? Now that’s a question. Hell, that’s THE question.
Flocks of birds pass overhead, all going west. Never seen that before.
“Yeah, okay,” I reply, giving up. What’s the point? A house is just a box of wood, but a home? A home can be anywhere, right?
I miss the smell of real coffee.
Life in The Blast Zone
Story by Malinda Bui
I feel like I lived more in the past few months than the rest of my life combined. It took Tahoma blowing for me to put into perspective what really matters; community, authenticity, and fun.
I remember when the news broke. The whole world was in shock. My heart broke for the people of the Pacific NW in the blast zone, knowing they’d lose their homes, businesses, everything. Born and bred in Chicago, it wouldn’t personally affect me, but I still felt an inexplicable and profound sadness.
Waves of people with the means to moved away as soon as humanly possible. Others followed. The government tried to actively force evacuations with the carrot first, then the stick. Those that remained were a mix of conservative long-timers and new wave hippies. Science deniers that didn’t believe it was going to erupt at all, and those who believed but just didn’t care. As different as they were, they bonded over their choice to stay.
During a TV news interview, a leathery old bearded man in a Don’t Tread on Me shirt two sizes too small explained, “I’ll take those hippy nudists over government fuckers any day.” Having all public services closed with no hospitals, grocery stores, gas stations, power, or running water necessitated working together to survive.
A community formed where people traded their time, talents, and resources. There was also an explosion of culture. Public art, live music, performances of all kinds popped up. Knowing the timeline of their own mortality was the muse they needed to finally start living.
Like many seeing this happening through the news, I was compelled to go there. I was disenchanted with my Wizard of Oz black and white life and wanted to enter that world of color, even if just for a few months. I cashed out my 401k, bank account, sold all my belongings, and headed to Washington state.
Traded all of it for passage in and acceptance into the commune. I was assigned a job in the community kitchen, delivering meals to those who couldn’t physically make it in. It was a shared decision to take care of the most vulnerable the best we could.
When I wasn’t working, the rest of my time was devoted to me. It was the first time in my life I had the freedom to live authentically and do exactly as I wanted without fear of what other people thought. Best summed up as … lots of sex, drugs, and rock and roll.
For those who chose to stay for the eruption, there were a multitude of choices available for spending that time with community. Religiously focused, party focused, even a group summiting Tahoma that day.
What felt right to me was being solo and kicking back in a lawn chair, watching the world burn with a newfound understanding of what really matters, and appreciation of it all.
