Just before she told him no

This “vision” is one of the 30+ that we’ll publish here in the next months. Most of them will go into Life Plus 2 Meters, Volume 2 (expected publication: Dec 2017). We hope that you will comment on the message, suggest ways to sharpen the narrative, and tell us how the story affects your understanding of adapting to climate change.

Most importantly, we hope that you enjoy reading these stories and share them with your friends and family. —David Zetland (editor) and the authors


She wasn’t there when it happened; she didn’t have to be. She could see it as clearly as she had in her child mind when, as a girl, her grandparents painted the picture for her, as their grandparents had done for them. The waters would advance, overtaking the beaches, the resorts, the high rises and bungalows, until the palm fronds of the last coconut tree, undulating like sea grass atop the waves, were all that remained on the surface. And so, when it happened, she was not surprised. She had carried the image of those last palm fronds in her mind for so long that she had already come to think of her homeland as submerged. Almost out of obligation, she had raised a mourning yowl to the empty universe, a pointless screech of rage, and then was done.

The news reports indicated that the archipelago was almost devoid of human life, at that point. Anyone who could get out, did, of course. Few were as fortunate as she, who had gotten out before it was necessary to obtain refugee status, before exceptions had to be made. She had come to America from Malé on a scholarship to study international relations, with a minor in geology, back when the threat of submersion was still just an idea, a terrifying future world no one dared contemplate for too long. Until they had to.

But there was that word almost, sometimes substituted with virtually. Words that suggested that not everyone had escaped, that at least one person was still there. At least one person sank with the wreckage.

But she couldn’t bear to think of that. One single life, or five, or ten, was inconceivable when every day brought news of deaths in the thousands. She could only think of the place, because the people had flung out in every imaginable direction, living and dead. The place, now, was lost.

Once, she’d had a professor who graduated from an academic program which had since lost its accreditation when his alma mater went bankrupt. He had done all of the work, earned his degree, played the tenure-track game and won, and suddenly had no academic credentials whatsoever. The foundation on which he had built his entire professional life was instantly, and through no fault of his own, undone. This was like that, amplified ten thousand times.

Her grammar school. Her pediatrician’s office. The minarets of the nearby mosque, which amplified the muezzin’s call to the Fajr. Her neighborhood. Her mother’s neighborhood, her father’s neighborhood, and so on back for thousands of years. The house of the cute boy, who sometimes rode his bike past her house after school and did tricks in her driveway, knowing she was watching from behind a corner of the drapes. The betel leaves and areca nuts. The airport hotel on Hulhule where she had her first job, as a front-desk receptionist, smiling in the faces of eco-tourists and practicing her accent. All of the places that held all of the same miniscule memories for everyone she had ever known. All of it gone. It was unthinkable, so huge was the loss. And yet, here on the other side of the world, there was not so much as a gust of wind to mark the change. Not the beating of the wings of a single Karner blue. It was entirely within her. It may as well have been a dream.

What, then, could something as frivolous, as petulant, as another person’s love be to her?


Michelle J. Fernandez is a public librarian from New York. Having spent the majority of her life at sea level, she is preoccupied with, and fascinated by, the implications climate change has for the future of humanity and the places it inhabits. Her poetry has appeared in the disability journal Wordgathering, on Albanypoets.com, and in Tonguas, the literary journal of the University of Puerto Rico. Her 2014 novella, The Pedestrians, was published in serial format by Novella-T. This passage is an excerpt from her full-length, as-yet-unpublished CliFi novel, Eminent Domain.

Dusk

This “vision” is one of the 30+ that we’ll publish here in the next months. Most of them will go into Life Plus 2 Meters, Volume 2 (expected publication: Dec 2017). We hope that you will comment on the message, suggest ways to sharpen the narrative, and tell us how the story affects your understanding of adapting to climate change.

Most importantly, we hope that you enjoy reading these stories and share them with your friends and family. —David Zetland (editor) and the authors


The boat drifted through the forest. Sol was paying almost no attention as she was busy reading her father’s notes. For anyone else, finding their way through the countless trees and small passageways would seem impossible, but not for her. She was born and raised on these lands and so, every tree branch, every water stream, and every bird nest gave away her exact location.

Every morning she got on that boat and steered it through the currents. Her task was simple: to monitor and record data from each station. Sol had learned all this from her father. He was a great man, whose love for science was only surpassed by the love he had for his only daughter. Sol’s mom was also a scientist, but she died months after giving birth. Sol’s memories of her were only those of old photographs and repeated stories told by her father.

Sol’s parents met when they were young students, they both shared the love of science and a great ideal: to minimise the impact of climate change on earth. They dedicated their lives to this. After the big floods they relocated to the Amazonas and committed their lives to record, analyse and understand.

The lessons we will learn from the stations will be vital for future generations.” Sol could almost hear her father say. She was now following her parents’ legacy.

When her parents first arrived to the forest, they discovered an isolated tribe. Sol’s parents tried to make contact with the tribe, attempted to learn about their culture and hoped on establishing a trade agreement. Before the radio silence supplies were scarce, after, basically inexistent. However, despite their multiple attempts, trading with the tribe was nearly impossible. They blamed the white men for the floods. And they were right.

You take and take, now earth dies” said the old man in broken Portuguese.

Sol’s parents paid no attention, convinced they were helping the earth. Soon after that, Sol’s mother gave birth to Sol. Together with Sol came her mom’s sickness. In a desperate attempt, her father took Sol’s mom to the tribe, the old man did all he could but it was not enough.

“The forest kill you and girl. Come, live with forest, with earth” said the old man pointing down.

“No” Sol’s father said. His task was too important.

Break machines. Earth will heal.” said the man.

They do no harm!” Sol’s father cried. Although he was not sure about it, the engineers had said that, apart from the chopped down trees, the stations had no impact on the environment.

You have eyes, open! If eyes closed, forest will not be friend” the old man said in a last attempt.

Devastated Sol’s dad abandoned the tribe with Sol in his arms. He was even more focused now, he needed to do this for her.

Sol’s father died seventeen years after that day. Sol never found her father’s body, only the boat, drifting along as earth did with it as it pleased. Two months went missing from the logs of that year, as Sol spent most of her time crying and searching. Alone, weak and without food, she saw the old man coming.

“Sorry. He said as he dropped a bag full with supplies.”

“Thank you.”

“Come with me. Live with forest.”

“No! This is important; we can save the earth with this information.

“White man is problem.”

“You don’t understand, I want to help!”

“Your eyes are closed. Earth is dying” the old man said gravely, and sailed away.

She knew the old man was right. But she was doing all she could not to create more damage. But those stations, how could she be sure? They were installed years before Sol’s parents came to the forest. Sol never questioned how those gigantic measurement stations could get sufficient energy with those small solar panels. But she was doing the right thing, as her dad had told her. Science was right. This would help in finding a solution for climate change, and then everything would go back to normal.

Sol went back to her routine. Every day checking the stations, collecting data. The months passed, seventeen since her dad disappeared, and that day, as every month since, Sol was on her way to visit his grave. The boat was drifting as she swiftly steered it. The forest was silent. Too silent. Her head turned as she tried to listen, why were the birds not singing? Or the trees shaking as the wind passed? Nothing. Only the sound of the water as it pushed forward. It was as some kind of spell had fallen over the forest. Suddenly, a snapping sound right ahead broke the silence, her head rose, her eyes widened. It made no sound as it perforated her lung, but the pain was unbearable. She looked down, she could see more than half of it sticking out. She recognized the wood, babassu, as she used to play on that tree when she was younger. She caressed the feathers, urubu, and thought she could hear its calling from the distance. A second snap. This time the arrow hit her left shoulder. She screamed in pain, and yelled to the Forest:

“Please I am just trying to help!”

The Forest was silent.

“I am not like the white man. My faa-

Arrow number three. She touched her mouth, and saw blood on her fingers. Her legs failed and she fell on her knees. Eyes filled with tears no air in her lungs, she whispered:

“Why?”

Four. Five. Six.

The forest was silent. The boat drifted through the forest.


Ignacio Carlucho is a Doctoral researcher at the National University from Central Buenos Aires in Argentina. His main research interests are underwater robotics and reinforcement learning.

Data Recovery Unit – Subsection Culture

This “vision” is one of the 30+ that we’ll publish here in the next months. Most of them will go into Life Plus 2 Meters, Volume 2 (expected publication: Dec 2017). We hope that you will comment on the message, suggest ways to sharpen the narrative, and tell us how the story affects your understanding of adapting to climate change.

Most importantly, we hope that you enjoy reading these stories and share them with your friends and family. —David Zetland (editor) and the authors


I have no tattoos. Life is not like a post-apocalypse Hollywood movie. This is not a world full of marauding, tech-savvy gangs with a penchant for body piercings and cannibalized vehicles.

Nor do I milk goats. I don’t live in some back-to-the-land Arcadian community of simple, smiling hard-working folk making yogurt and tending organic gardens.

I live in a monochrome world of sadness, defeat and resignation; filled with too many moments for reflection.

We accept the indefinite suspension of democracy. Those who have taken control in present circumstances could be worse. The government is tough and authoritarian, but who can blame them? Human rights don’t seem like such a priority so soon after billions have perished in The Extremes. Some claimed the right to do nothing as the elements grew fiercer. Our tired-sounding leaders do not seem overly corrupt or privileged. They are ruthless and abrupt in the pursuit of survival and recovery; in pursuit of “not letting us make the same mistakes over again.”

We do what we are told without much rancor or complaint; like a nation getting its head down and rebuilding after defeat in a war that it deserved to lose. But of course we are not a nation, we are the world, and the authorities rule across all the scarred and fragmented lands that still stick out above the water.

Funny really, but the proportion of people who have turned to God, or gods, remains about the same as before The Extremes. Believers suggest that the punishment, or the lessons from human hubris, are obvious and that God hopes we have learned to respect His creation through this mighty fall. I don’t know, but perhaps believers are comforted by the thought that God has received the billions of souls lost in our epic catastrophe. The Extremes certainly brought plagues and floods of what used to be called “biblical proportions.”

The religious and the non-religious alike blame people for the mess. In our mood of remorse, those who find no inspiration in the spiritual world are not of a mind to criticize those who find comfort in a divine gaze, a power who would hear their confession as miserable climate sinners.

Of course some wily and zealous cult leaders have set themselves up to forewarn us of the past, explaining that so many died for not following their particular rituals and strictures. But they remain small and predicable. Most of us who have lived through The Extremes might be quite docile, but we are also sharp witted.

Traumatized and chastened, we all more or less get along. The authorities squash any group that tries to stir things up. We all learned too late that pointing fingers at “others”, fanning fears and attributing blame for a worsening situation can distract humanity from the “central task.” Right now, our “central task” is the long slow road back to sustainable civilization. There is little point in disagreeing too much. There is not a lot left to squabble over.

I often wish I worked for the Flora and Fauna Recovery Department. Those people have interesting and heartening work. They scratch around for surviving beasts which could possibly mate, matching up unlikely animals from across the planet. On their travels they grab DNA samples from nearly extinct and recently-dead animals in case we ever achieve the technology for cloning animals in labs. They also carefully examine seed banks around the place to see which seeds might have survived The Extremes and might still germinate.

The least happy cohort work at the Steady State Population Group. Their job is to coerce the rest of us to breed at a steady rate: not too much reproduction, but also not too little – the Goldilocks birth rate. Their target is to work out ways to build the population gently to peak at about two billion. They are known as the “more sex police.”

I work in a Data Recovery Unit. Most parts of this unit are concerned with technology: mainly for essentials like agriculture, transport and communications. We have lost such a great amount of knowledge, and yet we know the basics about how far we got in electronics, chemicals and communication before The Extremes. The job is as much about trying to find knowledgeable people as it is about trying to find data and equipment. It will be quite a while before we restore the systems – the clean rooms, the pure materials – sufficient to begin such sophisticated microchip production and chemical manufacture again. The electronics that we now run use circuitry from before The Extremes: repaired, reused, and recycled. Gadgets from the times of mass consumption are patched and pimped. Software is hacked and cleverly adapted.

I belong to a small sub-section: Cultural Recovery. After the technical people breathe new life into old server farms and extract all the “productive information” we are sent in for the “non-essential” data that sprung to life when electricity was restored: the music, the films, the pictures, the stories.

We are allocated a little bit of storage space to ensure fewer social and cultural collections are lost, but we screen the stuff and decide what art and culture can be consigned to extinction.

Late at night, we sometimes sit around and watch movies from before The Extremes. People often bring in home-made wine and a few cold snacks to make an evening of it.

We watch movies set in vast traffic-bound cities. These usually involve heroes jumping onto aircraft to rush around the world in a carefree sort of way. Pleasure boats and jet skis skim over sunny seas. There are car races and stranger events where large vehicles are deliberately crashed in front of howling audiences. There were lots of car chases, usually ending in explosions as strange orange balls of fire roll skywards from vehicles or buildings.

Sometimes we watch earlier stuff. There are Hollywood epics in which Roman gladiators kill wild beasts, and wild beasts kill innocent Christians in amphitheaters of stone. We wonder to ourselves, “how did ordinary people feel at the time? Did they look forward to the spectacle?”

In recovered documentaries we witness real events from the past. Humans cut the tops off mountains and carried the ore away to refineries. They dammed valleys and strung the world with powerlines. They cleared land for farming with fields that stretched out of view over the horizon. Vast garbage tips called “landfills” flapped with plastic along with scavenging birds and children. We listen with respect to the warnings of experts who hold endangered baby animals in front of the camera, or take us under the sea to point at dying coral. The warnings of the documentary presenters were accurate of course – all dead now. You can see people believed these sincere commentators, but they looked round in confusion in the face of such dire predictions. They looked for leadership.

These sights diminish the beauty of the art we have also recovered. All the flowing music, vivid pictures and clever writing seems distorted somehow, because we were cutting the natural inspiration for all this creativity from under right our feet. Like noble utopian philosophies built on the shoulders of a slave society, all that blinkered artistic inspiration seems somehow tainted or escapist.

Sometimes one of us starts to cry. The forests and the seas look so beautiful. Colleagues usually encourage them to drink a bit more wine.

We survivors sit in this austere and shabby room, knowing our lives will never, should never, achieve the strange excitement of the TV heroes who raced through city streets and circled tropical islands in helicopters. That’s okay. We have the record. We can watch those times and wonder. What times those must have been. What thrills people experienced. What glittering palaces they built. What heights they scaled. What were they thinking?


John Sayer is a Director of Carbon Care Asia, a company that works to reduce carbon emissions and increase preparedness for climate change impacts in Asia. He lives, walks and writes in Hong Kong.

Recuerdos de la anciana sabia*

This “vision” is one of the 30+ that we’ll publish here in the next months. Most of them will go into Life Plus 2 Meters, Volume 2 (expected publication: Dec 2017). We hope that you will comment on the message, suggest ways to sharpen the narrative, and tell us how the story affects your understanding of adapting to climate change.

Most importantly, we hope that you enjoy reading these stories and share them with your friends and family. —David Zetland (editor) and the authors


(* Memories of the wise old woman)

I have discovered a recording I made of my great grandmother, la anciana sabia, when she was very old and I was young. This is the one in which she described what the Central Valley of California was like before I was born.

She remembered when the two great north-south highways, one on each side of the valley, lay mostly along the valley floor. That was before flooding became so frequent that it was cheaper to move the freeways up to the foothills to carry people and freight vehicles. Off these main highways, you can still see occasional weathered signs showing the name of the town you were entering, the population, and the old elevation above sea level, before sea level rose one foot after another, and the government stopped updating the signs.

In those days, the Sierra Nevada mountains north to south were covered with trees, and there was snow every winter but less heavy rain. That was in the century when the other side of my family was carried north from Michoacán on a tide of workers to pick fruit and vegetables in the Central Valley. My Anglo and Latino ancestors ended up together near the inverted Delta formed by the San Joaquin and the Sacramento rivers. This land had been reclaimed for farming centuries ago, before rising seas made it cheaper and more sensible to return much of it to the birds and the fish. Now the salmon move most years through a great inland sea.

“When your grandmother was born, in Sacramento in the spring of 1986,” said my great grandmother, “the Sacramento River a mile from our house almost topped its banks. Even then I thought, ‘Why do they allow homes to be built in this flood plain?’” In those days, she said, hardly any dwellings were built on pilings—just a few along the Sacramento river north of the Capitol, where now great river walls protect the parts of the city nearest to the confluence of the Sacramento and American rivers.

In the Delta, too, only a few people lived in dwellings on pilings, people nearest the rivers and on the edge of basins that are used for growing now only in dry years. You can still see the remains of old Delta roads in a very dry year when locals travel along them instead of using their solar boats. The magical architecture of the floodplains, the houses on pilings, was just beginning to evolve. Winter floods would only occasionally fill the Yolo Bypass, the first great bypass for flood water.

In those days, people grew vast areas of crops on the west side of the valley to feed people in California and the rest of the country and the world. As it became too hot to grow food in the ground, except under solar panels, people everywhere in the country and the world began to relearn how to grow their own food, in fields or greenhouses or agridomes, wherever they live, as our family has done, so that food doesn’t have to be moved great distances. But even now, furthest north in the Central Valley, farmers grow rice, grapes for wine, and marijuana.

“Once upon a time,” said my great grandmother, “men thought they could move water to anyplace that people wanted to live and farm.” That was before, one by one, the big dams failed and earthquakes broke the great north-south aqueducts into useless fragments. In those days, she said, farms grew food for people and animals from one end of the valley to the other. Some farmers irrigated those fields to grow alfalfa to feed cattle, and the meat of cows was so cheap that everyone whose faith allowed it ate beef all the time.

But the southern Valley kept getting hotter, and it kept getting harder to grow many crops in the traditional ways, all one crop planted for miles in soil under the desert sun. It has taken decades for people to learn that even in the deserts, it is possible, with permaculture, to surround yourself with green growing things. But that requires growing many different things together.

When we take the hybridcopter and travel to cities in the southern deserts, we see the new dwelling enclaves where artificial intelligence manages systems that control temperature, clean waste water, capture any rainwater that comes through, and pull water out of the air. Near Tulare Lake, they grow agave for syrup and mezcal. Only on the east side of the valley do thirsty nut trees still grow, taking in carbon dioxide and giving shade.

La anciana sabia saw this Valley begin to be transformed in her lifetime. “People used to accumulate more things,” she said, “before all the fires and floods and dislocations. Gradually, we lost the illusion of permanence.”

Hija, it doesn’t do much good to warn people about calamities. We live our lives up close,” she said, drawing so near to me that our noses almost touched. “The BIG picture” spreading her arms wide and then pulling me closer “we mostly miss, the pending events, the unforeseen consequences.”

“ArtIntel takes care of those things,” I said, repeating the argument I had heard so often. “ArtIntel does an error-free job of reasoning everything through, anticipating every possible consequence of every possible choice.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “we programmed it to do that for us. But even without that, human beings would adapt to their own follies, then innovate their way out of any problem their shortsightedness created for them.”

“Every few centuries,” she said, “people all begin to tell each other that they, of all human beings forever, are living at the end of everything, as if they thought they deserved to suffer uniquely, to be punished by gods they do not even believe in.

“They are always mistaken.”


Jane Wagner-Tyack is a writer and former educator who follows water issues for the League of Women Voters of California. She lives in Lodi, California.

The green turtles

This “vision” is one of the 30+ that we’ll publish here in the next months. Most of them will go into Life Plus 2 Meters, Volume 2 (expected publication: Dec 2017). We hope that you will comment on the message, suggest ways to sharpen the narrative, and tell us how the story affects your understanding of adapting to climate change.

Most importantly, we hope that you enjoy reading these stories and share them with your friends and family. —David Zetland (editor) and the authors


The time had come. She could feel a trickle of sand upon her nose, as she broke through from the safety of her spherical home. Clambering on top of her discarded eggshell, she propelled herself to the top of the chamber into the warm night air, where she waited. Suddenly hundreds of tiny heads emerged from their hidden cavity. They looked about nervously. The full moon’s light reflected upon the indigo sea… The air was still and balmy.

‘Let’s go, follow me.’ she said.

The sand was warm, as they scrambled down the dune towards moonlit water. Gentle waves kissed the beach, as they dove headlong into the open sea, leaving the shoreline behind them. The currents grew stronger as they approached deeper water.

‘Wait for me,’ a voice called from behind her. She turned to see one of her brothers, smaller than the rest, paddling as fast as he could against the tide.

‘Come on, keep up, I’m sure it won’t be far,’ although she wasn’t indeed certain of where they were going. but instinct drove her on.

After several hours, with rose-pink dawn upon the water, a large bed of floating seaweed appeared ahead of them, swaying back and forth in the swell of the waves. The horizon, like a stitched line appeared to join both sea and sky together.

‘Come on, we can rest here,’ she called to the little one beside her and turning, she was surprised to see that the rest of the group had disappeared. Seaweed brushed against their bodies and they rested within its benevolent embrace, its fronds aiding them shelter and camouflage from the eyes of predators.

After such a long swim and hunger gnawing at their bellies, they began to tear small pieces of tasty seaweed with their beaks. As they ate, they were unaware of a large slim shape that lurked below them, also intent upon finding a meal for itself.

Suddenly the silver form of an adolescent shark appeared through the crystal waters. She sensed its arrival and signalled to her brother to remain motionless. Its flicking tail passed them, almost close enough to touch, before it headed off into the water’s azure expanse.

‘That was very close,’ she said softly.’ We’d better be more watchful unless we want to become someone’s dinner.’ He shivered.

Days passed into months and the two youngsters were growing larger. Having outgrown their floating home, they desired a more varied diet and decided to swim closer to the shore. In the distance, they could see a large forest of kelp. Like underwater trees, it towered towards the surface. The water was shallower here, with algae covered rocks that jutted from the sea floor.

Amidst this watery canopy a jellyfish poked its glassy bell like head out from a rocky hole and eased itself from its hiding place. She caught sight of its diaphanous form and intrigued, sped towards it, thrusting herself through the ultramarine waters. Potential food, her sawlike beak, pierced its underbelly, instinctively careful to avoid its circling tentacles. Its rubbery body was unlike anything she had encountered, string-like tendrils protruded from her beak, as slowly the new cuisine, was consumed.

Here the sunlight sprinkled waves, with unflexed muscles, crawled smoothly to the shore, where they lapped on to the flax gold sand. Gulls silhouetted against the cloudless sky, wheeled above in the afternoon thermals. The lazy day idled. Summer languished. Time passed.

Some days they would climb on to a rock and enjoy basking in the sunshine. Here they felt relatively safe as they were now too large to fear becoming a hungry seabird’s lunch and far enough from the water to worry about sharks. Life was good. It was one such a day as this, that she noticed that the sea was full of the many limpid forms of jellyfish. From her vantage point on her sun warmed platform, she could see that these floating creatures would prove an easy catch. She chose her prey, slipped into the water and was upon her translucent meal in no time. It didn’t put up much of a fight as it drifted like gossamer in the current. Its white tentacles were tough and somewhat bland, but she swallowed it nonetheless.

‘The sea here is full of jellies,’ she said as they finished eating. Semi-transparent forms floated just below the surface in the rhythmic pulse of the sea. These gelatinous umbrellas pirouetted, caught in the water’s circling embrace.

The sky above them was cloudless, the sun breathed its sultry breath down upon them and they returned to their rocky terrace to bask once more. Listening to the sound of the lapping waves, they watched as slowly the sun changed its colour from orange to muted gold, that spread across the sea’s surface like an amber veneer.

As the temperature dipped, she turned to her brother and was startled at how strangely pale he seemed. He had a faraway look in his eyes. She wondered what had brought about this sudden change. Slipping into the apricot water, she turned and said. ‘I’m going to eat, are you coming?’

‘I don’t want to eat right now’ he said quietly. In fact, as he replied, she realised that she didn’t feel like eating either. It was as though there were lots of tiny bubbles in her stomach and somewhat alarmed, she found it was becoming difficult to keep below the surface.

Neither of them were now hungry and sluggishly they hung around their sea weed forest, occasionally scraping a little algae from the golden rocks. She was concerned that he was so quiet, although she too had little energy. Wedging herself between two small rocks to secure herself from floating upwards, she fell asleep.

When she finally awoke, her brother had disappeared. In desperation she looked around, as she wriggled herself free from the rocks. Once again the bubbles in her belly forced her to rise and before long she found herself drifting on the surface.

A boat’s bow broke the liquid turquoise.

‘Look’ shouted an excited boy with corn coloured hair, his freckled face smiling as he peered over the side into the blue water. ‘It’s a turtle!’ he exclaimed through a mouthful of sandwich, a plastic bag now empty, still in his hand. A girl with a similar number of freckles upon her sun kissed face appeared and leant over the side of the boat to watch a rather sick and bloated green turtle, flounder in the moving tide.

‘It doesn’t look very well does it.’ she said sadly, ‘I wonder what’s wrong.’ The boy tilted himself over slightly further to get a better look, before a sudden gust of wind, detached the plastic bag from his grasp and deposited it into the water below. He watched the receptacle float away on the tide.

Looking up she watched the seabirds circling, as yet another indigestible synthetic jellyfish joined the plastic sea.


Cohl Warren-Howles is an observer of nature, she captures her thoughts in both rhyme and short stories, across a variety of genres, but has a special interest in Eco-Fiction, She was born in Salisbury, England, near enough in the shadows of the ancient stone circle – Stonehenge, where she spent many an hour drawing for her degree in Fine Arts and Graphics. She writes for a number of magazines worldwide, has published a book, is now completing her second and currently lives in Stratford upon Avon with her husband Saul. They have two children. You can visit her blog  and check out her next book here.