Winds of Change
Short stories about our climate
About time some serious writers and artists engaged with the biggest issue of our time–maybe all time. These stories show that engagement fully underway!
-Bill McKibben, founder 350.org
Copyright © 2015 Moon Willow Press
ISBN: 978-1-927685-18-1
First Edition; edited by Mary Woodbury
The cover illustration is © Tikiri and licensed for use by Can Stock Photo. The cover design is by Mary Woodbury.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the authors, except where permitted by law.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authors' imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Publisher: Moon Willow Press
http://www.moonwillowpress.com
Coquitlam, British Columbia, Canada
Foreword
Introduction
Part 1. Short Stories
First Light, Robert Russell Sassor
How Close to Savage the Soul, John Atcheson
The Audit, Rachel May
Nature's Confession, JL Morin
How to Make a Proper Insalata, Anneliese Schultz
Body Paint, Craig Spence
A Cup of Joe, Gabriella Brand
The Apology, Paul Collins
Sand, Conor Corderoy
Everlast, M.E. Cooper
Hot Clams, Charlene D'Avanzo
Double Double, Michael Donoghue
It Won't Be Long Now, JoeAnn Hart
Mourning Moon, Janis Hindman
The Midnight Moon, Clara Hume
The Library, Stephan Malone
Panta Rhei, Christopher Rutenber
The Sea Wall at Vancuuver Shoal, Keith Wilkinson
Part 2. Poetry
Poems by Stephen Siperstein
Poems by Carolyn Welch
Biographies
Foreword
The realities of global warming and the decimation of the environment have eroded the parameters of time and space, and have turned the human psyche upside-down. The painful truth of the destruction brought on by the human race has jangled our nerves and imagination. We have pushed ourselves beyond our comfort zone to a nightmare world of broken dreams. We know what the future is like because the future is now.
Science fiction is now a love story; a love story is now a political satire. The environment is inside and outside of us all, and there is suffering and confusion. As a result, poets, writers, and artists of every discipline have begun a powerful and unceasing global analysis of what the world is, and what it will be like, for our children, as everything we thought we knew about our planet Earth has been compromised and set adrift.
Winds of Change is a historic document born out of a short story contest held in conjunction with 100 Thousand Poets (Authors) for Change. The purpose of this global event is to amplify the movement of poets and writers—and all artists who hope, through their actions and events—to seize and redirect the political and social dialogue of the day, and turn the narrative of civilization towards peace and sustainability. Change is in the air.
The more I read this anthology, the more I understand the raw essentiality of this movement. We have seen quite a few anthologies of poetry spring up since the birth of 100TPC in 2011, but this is the first anthology specifically focused on issues of sustainability and the first to call out to fiction writers to join the discussion. Some say that poetry, art, writing, and music aren't supposed to make a change—that they can't make a change. They say they like to "keep their poetry and their politics separate." They like to quote Auden's "In Memory of W.B. Yeats," singling out the line "poetry makes nothing happen." (Read "fiction makes nothing happen.") But, by my understanding, Auden's words run deeper and stronger and are more essential than a chastisement of mixing your art and politics. In fact, for me, Auden suggests the opposite by context. Art belongs to civilization, and what we deliver from the imagination transposes and unearths our understanding of who we are and what we do as humans. Civilization is the platform for these creative works of change. The moment we say "poetry makes nothing happen," something indeed happens.
We follow Winds of Change, and we search for understanding and direction. The writers in this great collection offer us hope against the fear that we have gone too far in our experiment of destruction. There is beauty here. Change is coming. Let us begin anew!
-Michael Rothenberg, founder of 100,000 Poets for Change (100TPC)
Introduction
Stephen Siperstein, who contributed poems to this anthology, wrote in an essay he submitted to Eco-fiction.com that many do not give climate change a thought and that there is rampant denialism, skepticism, and "climato-quietism" (Bruno Latour's term for that laid-back attitude that somehow, without us acting, things will take care of themselves). According to Stephen, "This is the 'new normal' of our cognitive and affective lives, and for us to figure it all out, we need help. We need guides and maps. We need emotional resources. In short, we need the literary and cultural arts." Bill McKibben preceded this idea in Grist, back in April 2005: "What the warming world needs now is art, sweet art."
Thankfully, writers and artists have been giving us this sweet art, and they've helped to usher in what author James Schaefer (Two Houses of Oikos) calls the "Age of the Environment." The broad category of eco-fiction has been around for a long time, but now climate change—the most unprecedented risk to our planet—has inspired an increasing number of related stories. Margaret Atwood calls climate change "the everything change," and Naomi Klein tells us that "this changes everything." It makes sense that climate themes permeate all genres of fiction as well.
Modern authors join a famous lineage of storytellers dating all the way back to the Bible and The Epic of Gilgamesh in writing our story as it relates to nature—deluge being a common motif among climate themes, for example. Science fiction authors pioneered climate change fiction; the earliest speculators were such authors as J.G. Ballard, Fritz Leiber, and John Christopher. In 1977, Arthur Herzog penned Heat, one of the first modern novels about anthropogenic global warming. I talked with his widow Leslie (see Eco-fiction.com), who told me that her late husband had interviewed scientists at NASA, NOAA, the Smithsonian, and several other institutions to understand climate change theories and models.
Today's authors join their predecessors in dealing with environmental uncertainties. There are even specific genres that encapsulate climate change, such as solarpunk, climate fiction, and Anthropocene fiction. Regardless of what you want to call this fiction, it's happening in spades. As curator at Eco-fiction.com, I ran a short story contest in the summer of 2014, with the topic of climate change. Writers from all over the world sent in submissions—and that's how this anthology came to be.
When reading these fiction submissions, which are based upon the very real science of climate change, I noticed that the stories reflected not just dystopian or apocalyptic scenarios but hope. Often we are the antagonist, but redemption transforms us into the protagonist and therein lies the big twist. Despite the dismal forecast for how climate change will continue to affect us and all other species on the planet, the
strongest stories seem to happen when we "feed the good wolf"—when we look up, face our mistakes, apologize for them, and fix them…when we do what’s right. And what’s right, in this case, is also becoming what’s cool!
Looking around me, I see organizations striving to end world hunger and poverty, First Nations fighting pipelines and supertankers, policy shifts that give everyone equal rights, the pope calling for climate action, 17 United Nations goals to make the world fair and sustainable, celebrities calling for an end to wolf killing and bear hunts, and a rising number of novels and films extolling a greener world. The concept of solarpunk is also a positive for literature; it's not just a fiction genre but a hopeful aesthetic. I tease about it here, because I hope to hold another writing contest in the future dealing with solarpunk. I interviewed one of its stewards, Adam Flynn, who said:
"As billions of people in the developing world begin the rise out of poverty, they are looking for a vision of the 'good life', and unfortunately the current vision tends to involve fast food, large cars, big houses, and conspicuous consumption. Sustainability at scale means renewable energy, reusable infrastructure, an end to throwaway culture, room for human dignity, and the possibility for continued flourishing (although perhaps in different ways than how we define it currently).
If cyberpunk was 'here is this future that we see coming and we don't like it', and steampunk is 'here's yesterday's future that we wish we had', then solarpunk might be 'here's a future that we can want and we might actually be able to get.'"
I am honored to present this anthology as a collection of that sweet art that makes us think and gives us hope. I wish to thank all of the authors who participated, Bill McKibben for his kind thumbs-up, and Michael Rothenberg and Terri Carrion for founding 100,000 Poets for Change, which helped Eco-fiction.com host the contest. Both Michael and Terri, along with hundreds of thousands of us, believe in the power of art forms (dance, music, poetry, fiction) to shape peace and sustainability around the world.
The best selections from last summer's contest, along with two extra short stories and two poetry sections, are included within these pages. The winner of the writing contest was Robert Sassor, Director at Metropolitan Group, a leading social change agency and one of B Lab's 100 "best for the world" corporations.
The generous authors have agreed to donate 15% of book sales to 350.org.
-Mary Woodbury, Owner, Moon Willow Press and Curator, Eco-fiction.com
Part 1. Short Stories
First Light, Robert Russell Sassor
Contest winner
The medical machines whir. Machines of love and grace you called them when your father was here. I remember you sketching in the corner. I thought you were doing portraits of your father, but no; it was the machines you were after. You didn't want to share your work with me then, either.
I speak to you now so that you will hear my voice. I know that you can hear me. I recount to you some of my favorite memories, retold the way that I want you to take them with you. Like how, as a young boy, you'd insist on going to the university with me when I had to work late; and you'd ask me profound questions, the way young people do. You'd ask where all the ice came from, and I'd tell you about how water came to the earth from ice asteroids—and just the right amount for our planet to have the water and climate needed for life.
You loved that stuff.
You'd ask about whether it was true that all things are related, even the ravens and the jellyfish and the narwhals. You always loved narwhals.
I found myself telling you about that singular miracle: RNA, the fact that molecules went from merely being to self-replicating, and no one knows how or why. Your father thought these conversations were too advanced for you, but I knew better. I explained how RNA had sparked this chain reaction that separates our planet from the wastelands we observe in space.
The Wasteland. I remember reading this with you for your homework. "I will show you fear in a handful of dust."
Stardust.
We are all stardust—Joni Mitchell.
We are all fear.
I remember the time you asked about electricity. I was out of my depth, but I told you about how there is electricity in our brains. And how, every time we think, we are helping to realize the notion of entropy: turning order (nutrients) into chaos (heat and energy).
And here you are.
The doctor says that an electrical current continues to run along your brainstem. It's how I know that there is still a fragment of you with me, that you can hear me.
It is something, a miracle. My son, the miracle.
I stare into your eyes, bright as a marlin.
The doctor enters; I don't turn my head away from you. I don't want to know that he is there. He puts a hand on my shoulder.
"I may have asked this before … but, does he have a denomination? Is there someone we should send for?"
"Dean is on his way…" I realize what I said, having accompanied your father on trips like this when he was the pastor. "Mark, Mark Gibbons, from our old church. He's on his way."
"Did you have any questions about the paperwork?"
I shake my head no.
I can't look up.
I can't make eye contact.
I just keep looking at you, my back to the door—to the world—needing you, this moment, for us to share. I hear a nurse enter, her shoes squeaking on the floor, disrupting how I need this moment to be. She puts her hand on my back.
"I remember him," she says. "He was so handsome." I don't respond. I despise her use of the past tense.
I want to run my hands through your hair, but they have shaved it. Your face is partially covered by bandages. I want to hear you breathe. I've realized too late that this is my favorite sound: the sound of you breathing. The gentle whiz as you'd inhale in your sleep. I can still hear your labored exhale as I sat-up with you when you were sick. Now, the machines breathe for you.
"I love you, my sweet," I say, my face twitching. "I am so sorry."
I can't even remember your last words. I wish that I had said something profound to make you stay. But I was tired. I was at the sink, decompressing. I wasn't paying attention.
And now, here we are. I wrap my hands around one of yours, wanting to hold it forever and wanting you to hold mine back. If I don't move, maybe this moment will never end. Maybe I can stay here, and find my way back to two days ago, to three years ago—remain connected to a past with you, forestalling a future without you.
People come and go. Mark arrives and says a prayer, holding your other hand. Who is he to hold your hand at this time?
I wrap my arms around you, wanting this to be the last thing you feel—this love, all the love I have. As the machines unwind, there is silence. There is only the presence of you. I hold my breath, watching the color change in your eye, the hue shift in your skin, until I am truly alone—the last remaining strand of our family, dangling there, in the wind.
* * *
As I drive out of Juneau toward home, Mendenhall glacier witnesses my passing like so many times before. It was one of your favorite places. I remember sitting there with you when you were young, watching the aurora as its light reflected off the glacier, off the lake and the ice flank of the mountains beyond. It was the closest I had felt to heaven.
I remember talking with you about Pleiades—your favorite constellation. And I explained how the light we saw from it had traveled over hundreds of trillions of miles, passing stars and planets as it went, maybe shining through nebulae and past pulsars and around black holes—some of that light ending its life in your eyes, and others ending its life in mine.
The amazing thing is that, to the light beams, their whole journey happens instantaneously. There is no time at the speed of light. I explained that to the light beams, time began at the center of a massive star and ended in our eyes in a single instant. We were peering at an ancient time, and yet, at another scale, there is no time—there is only you and me and the stars that shined dow
n on us.
You sat silently. You were such a thinker, even then. I wrapped my arm around you and you hugged into me.
That time: that moment. In the life of a light beam, it is happening now. I am there, in that moment. I will always be there with you.
* * *
I sit and look out the back window toward the mountain, filled with numbness. Artifice has been stripped from the world. On the radio, I hear stories about people defined by what they are against instead of what they are for. All of the talking, the incessant noise in the world. The disrespect and disregard for human life, the xenophobia and negativity advanced by those we give megaphones to. I shut the radio off.
I hear an unfamiliar knock at the door. I know I look terrible; I haven't showered, and I've been wearing this sweatshirt for two days. I hope it's Val, who hasn't returned yet from her cruise and who I'm anxious to see. Instead, I open the door to find Lucy. Her smile showing so much wisdom for her age. We hug, and I see that she's brought the newspapers in from the yard.
"I hope you don't mind … I wanted to stop by. Mom made some roast beef for you … she asked me to get some bread, which I completely forgot." She smiles, so pretty, handing me the dish. "I hope you have some already?"
"I do, thank you. That was very thoughtful of your mother." After all this time, I don't even know her mother's name. "Please send my thanks." A cold wind blows in through the door. "Come in."
"Actually, I was hoping that I could take you into town. There's something I want to show you, if you're up to it." Her eyes are pleading.
"What is it?"
"It's a little something they've pulled together at the high school. It just kind of sprung up. And … I didn't want it all to happen without you getting a chance to see it."
I grab my jacket and get into her old beat-up truck, the same one I've seen her drive by the house in many times—always wanting her to stop by to spend time with you. I wanted the two of you to be closer. I'm pretty sure I made clear my desire that you ask her out. I always thought she'd be so good for you. Now I see how unhelpful that must have been.
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