Tag: Climate Change

J.H. Hewitt

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Your eyes were steady. I tipped my head and raised a brow. Straight at me, you said it again. A blink. And then, on my face, a small smile broke out, its flames crackling in the space between us. Licking at the chairs on which we sat, setting them ablaze, making embers of all.

The smile – hungry now – glanced at you. Your eyes unflinching. I watched it open the front door, and set out for the town, spreading as it went, razing houses, St Trinity, the Oak. Old style lamps flared then burst. It seared across the land, while you held your gaze. Up went hedgerows, trees, strangle-squawked crows. Billows of grey filled the sky. But the smile scorched on, boiling the oceans, blackening shoals and choking gulls. Soon, the plains were dust, the charred mountains bare, cities pluming final puffs. A whole sphere in cinders.

The smoke clung around us. I could hardly see you now – or breathe. Then, at last, you said, clear, like you’d never needed air anyway: “No, no, no, not like that.” And then: “What have you done?”

The smile fell away. Wordlessly, I searched for something to save. 

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“Of course we can change our diet, fly less and drive less, but the single most important thing any one of us can do in the fight to save our planet is to communicate about it – whether that is directly to people in positions of power, through art, or in social conversations with those around us. The aim must not only be to change minds but also to win hearts. We mustn’t just argue using data, but also persuade using empathy. Let’s shine a torchlight on powerful governments and corporations who dodge accountability by trying to gaslight individuals. And let’s reward with loyalty those who show courage in putting the planet and its most vulnerable people first.”

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J.H. Hewitt is a parent and writer – but most of her words get someone else’s byline.

Bonnie Meekums

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He takes his pleasure, then burns, leaving mile-wide scars. She trembles, drawing a vaporous cloak around her form.

Her sisters sing low, tending wounds.

He poisons the air. The sisters cry dissent to deafened ears, opaque eyes. She wraps her cloak more thickly, shedding acid tears.

And still, her man marauds.

Then, a virus whispers winds, unseen. One by one, the people sicken. Many die. It’s his turn to hide.

For two months, she flourishes, despite being parched. There is calm. Foxes strut, birds sing long and loud, their melodies soaring on purified air.

It is time, she says. Fecund, she unfolds her cloak, birthing young to sing and dance, jump, and play.

When he sees how powerful she is, he ventures forth. At first, she does not see the debris and destruction. The slow, almost imperceptible poisoning.

And finally, the burning.

Trees wail, as rivers drain away. And he revs up, lights up, turns the music up, ears and eyes closed.

Then, something unforeseen happens. His brothers join her sisters.

‘What is this madness?’ The brothers’ voices roar on the wind, as they fly arm in arm with the sisters in song.

It’s a long and laboured task. There are mountains to climb, pain-laden stories to tell, scars to honour.

The sisters ululate. Remorseful tears trickle falteringly down the brothers’ cheeks. A slow lament pushes past their throats.

And Gaia smiles a full moon, reflecting off every lake, river and sea. She dances with mighty trees, is refreshed by crystal rain, sighs on pure winds, shares her gentle fire.

And from underneath a freshly woven cloak, her young emerge.

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“Climate change is the result of myopia and greed. Climate myopia means we don’t feel the visceral need to eat less meat, burn less fossil fuel, travel more kindly. If we could see our grandchildren losing lives and livelihoods, if we could see we’re all connected, if we could see the rich could tumble and burn – then maybe, just maybe we would change our ways. What the earth needs is for us all to feel gut-wrenching remorse for what we’ve done. And then, to hold hands and rise up en masse, with a peaceful determination to heal our home.”

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Bonnie Meekum’s words are published in Briefly Zine, Bath Flash Fiction Festival Anthology, Reflex Press, Moss Puppy Magazine, Roi Fainéant, and Fly on the Wall Press, among other places. She lives in Greater Manchester, growing disobedient vegetables and grandchildren. She also travels alarming distances to visit people she loves.

Slawka G. Scarso

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On our last day of living life, the sky was thick of orange-grey clouds. It mirrored the asphalt in the streets and the wildfires that had been surrounding the city for so long we considered it normal, unavoidable. We went on with our lives like any ordinary day. We had breakfast wrapped in single-portion plastic packs; we commuted to work, each one in a separate car, because we valued our independence, our flexibility, our time; at work, we chatted with colleagues over coffee, or a cigarette; we threw the cigarette butt with the others, on the pavement, and the Styrofoam cups in a bin so full of litter it fell out of it moments later; we turned the air conditioning on, even though it wasn’t that hot but we just preferred it that way.

By now we all felt the situation was so compromised there was nothing we could do to stop it.

So nothing is what we did.

I was the first to notice it, at least in my office block. The trees, the trees that were left in town because the mayor hadn’t had the chance to cut them yet – Trees are too dangerous, he said, When they fall, they kill people, – started releasing a gooey liquid, the colour of maple syrup, but thicker still. A resin. At first, it trickled, and then it started to pour, the way we left the water pour in our bathrooms while we did something else.

We watched it flood the streets. We watched it envelop the people out there: like a blob, it circled them, and then crept until it encapsulated them and solidified. Hypnotised, we spread our hands on the windows, tried not to blink not to miss the scene. We were so focused on what was happening outside, we didn’t notice the resin creeping in our building too. We didn’t notice it as it circled us, and then wrapped us as we were watching outside, as we were doing nothing to prevent it.

*

Years later they’ve moved us into a museum. We’re the amberised people, that’s what the tag says. Scientists compare us to fossilised insects. Historians to the people of Pompeii. They bring children to watch us too, when they’re old enough to understand.

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“I believe that big changes start from small actions – like recycling, repurposing, or even finding creative ways to use leftovers when cooking. The worst we can do is expect others to take action while we do nothing”

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Slawka G. Scarso has published several books on wine in Italy and works as a copywriter and translator. Her short fiction has appeared in Ellipsis Zine, Mslexia Bending Genres, Streetcake Magazine, and Spelk, among others. She lives between Rome and Milan and is currently submitting her first crime novel. You can find her on Twitter (@nanopausa) and her website.