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Climate Crisis Stories-
The Humanity and Toll
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The creek water has dried up. A young African girl seeks solace from a dying elephant.
Texas man saves his hounds but loses his cabin in a flood. He considers the truth of climate change.
Standing in line for water in Mumbai, India, man is on the verge of losing his humanity.
In the year 2090, the California Central Valley is forced to adapt and isolate due to the climate crisis. One girl’s struggle when she learns the truth.
Modern First Nations boy tries to pull his family together after they are separated by the need to abandon their coastal
village. Based on true story.
The Elephant
Sharon Sheltzer
Climate Change Series 1 January 28, 2024
Flash Fiction
404 words
The creek is hard like a baked mud pie. Yesterday’s small puddle is gone. Lali folds her tired legs and eases down like an accordion. Water-seeking stoneflies emerge from the hole she carves on the bank. After they scatter, she presses her parched lips into the gash to coax out a dribble. This had worked once before in another bad time but today yields only dry pebbles. What is she good for now? Bringing water to her family has always been her job, as far back as she can remember. Even if she were blind, like Aunt Ada, she could still find the way. Brothers raise tilapia in the village co-op, Momma makes fufu or porridge with boiled fish to feed them, and when Poppa sneaks home from war, he plants the garden. They all need the water she carries two times a day. She can’t go home with an empty bucket. Perhaps there’s something left in the animal’s watering hole: if only her poppa could carry her there.
Lali had never seen an elephant lying down on the walking path during the hottest part of the day. If they needed to sleep, they would huddle under the Marula tree shadows. She looks at the elephant’s trunk, curled like a mother’s arm cradling her child. How she imagines the way her mother must have held her and her six brothers. The longing for comfort overtakes her. She snuggles into the embrace and pats the leathery skin, expecting a twitch, but the animal is unresponsive. The airy rumble of the elephant’s breath reassures her.
Maybe this elephant can’t go home either. She will stay with her until the sun disappears behind the savannah horizon, and they can both decide what to do next. Lali spreads her small ebony body over the wrinkled folds of a sandpaper ear, shielding it from the scorching sun. Their faces align. Her fellow traveler’s eyelid unfolds to reveal a jewel. Its amber glow, set in a pool of ink, speaks to her of the fires that had sent her dad to war. She kisses the wiry eyelashes shut and sinks into the trunk again. Their skin cleaves as precious moisture draws from their bodies. It’s the last thing she has to give. The fiery ball in the sky refuses to descend. Lali feels the shudder of the gentle beast in her dreams and takes leave herself, over and beyond the sun into an emerald-green forest.
Flood And Drought?
Sharon Sheltzer
Climate Change Series 2
“Flood and Drought?”
Short Story: 1,274 words
“Damn hurricane, noisier than a NASCAR rally,” Ted grumbled as he covered his ears. Water seeped under the door of his turn-of-the-century cabin, inherited from his grandma. Floodwaters rose high enough to cover the hydrangeas outside and leak through the old log chinks. He had planned to stick it out, but Ted knew it was time to leave. Would he have to abandon his house like everyone else in the neighborhood did after the first flood?
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He sloshed over the wet floor, kicked aside the floating government letters, and filled a water jug. Gravel-sized drops battered the pane and his face as he crawled out of the kitchen casement window. He looked back at his grandma’s legacy, vowing to return.
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“Come on, boys!” The three hounds leaped through the opening. Shiny black Fortune was first, in front of the pack with speed and devotion, accident-prone Hudson, second, and distracted Sorry, always behind. Slogging through the waist high water, Ted led the way towards the boat shed as they paddled to keep up with him. Gale force winds reminded him of chopper takeoffs and had ripped off the roof. The Trinity River had overflowed the willow-lined banks and carried off anything that wasn’t tied down. He glimpsed his canoe entangled in the brush, but too far away to rescue. Plan B; go for the higher racked guest canoe.
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Fortune yelped to get his attention, and sure enough, Sorry had disappeared. Rain pelted Ted’s brawny shoulders like daggers and Sorry’s submerged paws clutched his thighs and jug. He grabbed his fur and brought him up for air. The wide-eyed dog’s sharp nails shredded Ted's plaid shirt. The gusts had blown open the shed door with a clatter against the metal siding, easing his entrance.
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The second boat was secure on the rack, the frothy crest of the surging river barely skimming the hull bottom. He swam the last few feet, yelling for the dogs to follow. Hudson yipped and cried when a flying branch crashed into him. Ted grabbed the splintery rack to plant his feet, and one by one, hoisted his companions into the canoe. He waited a minute for his heart to slow before pulling himself in. The boat lifted in the next surge. Where now? A second floor would be safer than his ground level cabin.
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The Anderson’s two-story house was at least a football field upstream. Their oversized flag still billowed. He battled against the gusts and the current, arms and hands aching after only twenty minutes. With the added animal weight and rain, navigating felt like trudging through quicksand. Ted’s outdoor skills kicked in. He tied a hunter’s loop knot on a bough to rest for a while and bailed out the hull. He glanced towards his cabin, and a floating log rammed them. The canoe rocked, and the dogs slid to the side.
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“She-it!” he screamed, losing his balance.
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Hudson fell into the turbulent water and Ted followed him in with a splash. The dog pawed him.
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“Off!” he sputtered, going under.
Ted surfaced through the froth, looked the hound in his eyes to assert control, and encouraged Hudson to follow him. He clutched the gunnel, hand over hand, and inched toward the tree limb, grasping the pine branches.
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“Hudson, come!”
Fortune and Sorry howled like they were on a hunt. Getting a dog into a boat from the water would be damn near impossible. He tied the bitter end of the line around his waist before reaching for Hudson’s front legs. The hound stayed out of reach, nose twitching, apparently enjoying the swim. Ted gave up and pulled himself into the canoe. Only when everyone was in the boat did Hudson paddle to the bough, claw himself up, and leap into Ted’s arms. They both collided with the other dogs, and Ted saw the horizon move through his blurred vision.
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Stranded midway between his cabin and the Anderson’s house, Ted considered giving up the canines to save his own life. He wouldn’t need hunting dogs if he wasn’t alive. Fortune licked his hand. Visions of his self-reliant dad intervened: He made cross-country treks without provisions, hunting and foraging along the route. Ted relented. He could make it to safety, even with his unruly passengers. They had provided him with venison, rabbits, and, more important, companionship. Especially since his wife had left him to live in Galveston. Fortune nuzzled his side.
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“Lay down girlie.” She dropped to his feet.
“Hudson, down! Sorry, get the hell down!”
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Ted picked up the paddle and dug into the current. Beyond the next tree cluster, he spotted the red roof. The rain stopped, the wind calmed, and the final part felt like a touchdown without any defenders. Ted tied off on a downspout and a trellis. Bracing himself for balance, he reached to shatter the glass out of the second-story window with his paddle. He cleared the shards out of the sill.
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“I gotcha’ this far. I’ll getcha’ to safety.”
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Ted lifted the wet dogs through the gap. He maneuvered his bone-weary body over the sill and stumbled to the bed across the room. Ted sprawled face up on the dusty white lace coverlet with a sigh and a smile. Old Glory continued to fly high from the pole eerily suspended in the rising waters, its torn and flapping stripes visible through the window frame. The treetops peeked out like lonely islands amidst the expanding waterline. Torn curtains whipped about the opening. Planning for Hurricane Harvey differed from living through it.
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The hounds whined. He got up and shared the water he brought from his bathtub. There had been no time to gather food. Averting his gaze from their pleading eyes, he patted heads and trudged to the open frame in the wall to look for his house. Once again, the wind roared. Sheets of rain and flying debris obstructed his vision. He looked around for something to cover the broken window, then moved a dresser there and returned to bed.
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Ted stared at the cob-web covered ceiling and breathed in musty air. His neighbors had abandoned this house for a government buyout of less than a third of its value. Others did too; his tract was almost a ghost-town. Ted thought they were crazy at the time; the river had only flooded their neighborhood once since he moved there twelve years ago, and he was sure the intense rains were seasonal. The summers’ parched soil couldn’t support grazing land, but he didn’t have cows anymore, so he wasn’t concerned. His cattle-ranch neighbor didn’t survive the last drought, but he was a city slicker. Sure, a tornado had come close a couple years ago, but that’s normal for Texas.
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Government officials had flapped on, saying words like “unsustainable,” “flood plain,” and, “climate change.” The inspector had offered to buy his land for a pittance, saying the house wasn’t worth much. But they weren’t there when he took fresh cookies out of the oven, rested on the front porch with snickerdoodles and a glass of ice-cold lemonade.
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The cabin wasn’t insured. For all he knew, it might have lifted off the wood foundation and tumbled down the river. Visions of grandma’s photos, his jeep, and the garden, scattered and ruined. He wondered if the buy-out was still being offered. Maybe those officials were right, and his neighbors weren’t so dumb; things might be getting worse. Floods, droughts. How could anyone expect him to make heads or tails out of this? There wouldn’t be enough money for another house in the country. He wasn’t willing to lose his furry companions. Today, he learned that. Ted sensed that his life, as he understood it, was over. Living off the land was all that he knew.
Humanity Under the Sun
Sharon Sheltzer
Climate Change Series 3
Humanity Under the Sun
Flash Fiction
260 words
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A scrawny youth wedges into the water queue ahead of me, his pungent body presses against my sweaty skin. For two hours I’ve stood in the sun, guarding my place. Losing my farm to the bank has changed me—who cares about the street urchins of Mumbai? We’re all fighting to survive. I’m the man of the house with three children to feed, and our family’s water urn is almost empty. Ready for combat, I poke his shoulder with my elbow and plant my feet. When he turns, my breath stops.
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“Kirpaya.” (please)
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He could be mine. The boy’s pleading brown eyes, wee nose, and delicate mouth are so like my youngest son that it melts the hardness in my heart. I retreat. His body relaxes, and I question my compassion, closing my eyes to shut out his face.
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A zooming pickup appears over the dune; dust clouds announce its presence as it screeches to a halt. My hopes rise, despite understanding this drought could last forever. The driver erects a rope, forcing us into a line. I’m squeezed towards the front like a possum through a python. My throat is parched, belly hollow. I long for mouth-watering cumin lentils soaked in this precious liquid. They hand two jugs to each person, dwindling the remaining stock.
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A man pitches the last two to the boy who runs with one under each arm, and a cry goes up. Shouting people chase the vehicle as it drives away. Slumping, I peer at the ground as I’ll have to suffer my wife’s disappointment. First, I notice the stench, then I feel a tug on my shirt. The boy offers me a bottle.
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Exiled Eden: Building Tomorrow in California
Sharon Sheltzer
Climate Change Series 4
Exiled Eden: Building Tomorrow in California
4,427 words
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The Year 2090
Up goes the heavy velvet curtain. Elder Solomon washes the young mistress of ceremony’s feet in a silver basin, splashing lavender-scented water. He folds the embroidered drying cloths and says, “Go forth, Anastasia,” as he disappears backstage. With bare feet, she skips downstage, her orange blossom skirt flows behind her, and her long dreadlocks bounce freely. The spotlight follows her. Youth in the crowd cheer and the elders clap.
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“You know my name. I’m told it means ‘resurrection,’ and I’m still trying to figure that one out. Grandpa Antonne is unwell, and I’m standing in for him today. Said I knew our yearly storytelling as well as anyone, and that it’s the right moment for the younger generations to take over from the Empaths.” More cheering. “He might be sorry.” She grinned, wiping sweat from her forehead.
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The lights sweep across the magnificent, restored 1920s auditorium in Visalia, California, and she observes the elders. Anastasia focuses on the aisle seats with their solar hover-chairs and the box seats reserved for the farmers and differently abled attendees. Even with everyone in red, white, and blue cooling jackets and the heat exchangers, the air is still thick with perspiration. Except for Ralph, the eternal curmudgeon, they appear curious, or is it bemused? She gestures to the French hornist, then asks the stage manager for a chair, gong, and wedding bells. Pulling her sturdy wooden chair closer, Anastasia turns it, rests her damp chin on the back, and speaks into the microphone.
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“Of course, according to tradition, we’ll have The Telling, The Report, group marriage ceremonies, and a feast.” Cheers from the crowd.
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She stands, and at almost six feet tall, commands the stage. “Let’s get started.”
Music accompanied The Telling for the first time, its plaintive notes calming the gathering. She recalls the traditional oratory style she’s heard since birth. It infuses her and elevates her casual tone to one of serious gravitas.
In the year 2050, the climate crisis sowed chaos in California. Excessive heat and droughts caused the abandonment of the San Joaquin Valley, formerly known as the 'breadbasket of the U.S.'. The population migrated to the cooler coastal regions and abandoned the fields, factories, and meat processing plants. Famine overcame the state and those with guns ruled to protect property and natural resources.
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Local politicians compelled immigrants and people of color to return to The Valley as agricultural laborers. Disabled citizens were considered a societal burden and were forced to leave the coast and languish in the valley heat. The state government turned a blind eye, hoping these solutions would solve the hunger problem. Rogue nations corrupted the internet and isolated communities, allowing for these atrocities to go unnoticed. This period is known as the 'Time of Ignorance and Chaos'.
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“Boo!” thunders the crowd, playing their role. The French horn bellows airy bass notes. Anastasia marvels her telling gets the same response as the seasoned elders’ rendition. She forces the tremble from her voice as she continues.
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Society’s disabled throwaways showed impressive resourcefulness. They were schooled in overcoming obstacles. The ostracized group brought the desperate valley dwellers hope with innovative ideas.
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We acknowledged the generational wisdom of the Tule River Native Americans and returned their land. They planted trees, regenerated the soil, dry-farmed and rehabilitated the wetlands. We learned that community is essential for the survival of all species—plants, animals, and humans. This was just the beginning; you are living the rest of the story and play an important role.
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The bright stage lights cause moisture to bead on her forehead, threatening to splash into her line of sight. Without a thought, she takes the standard issue absorption cloth from her pocket and returns to The Telling, eager to enthrall the audience.
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We also acknowledged outsider status as a commonality and became an inclusive society. Consensus ruled at monthly gatherings, avoiding power corruption. We banned the internet; a tool used to sow discontent and hate. Strategies for the success of this new society were discussed. Psychologist Bainbridge, may he rest in peace, resolved the debate with a single word, “empathy.” Recognizing the truth of this insight, we agreed to open our gatherings with a foot-washing ceremony.
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Audience cued; the walls reverberate with acclamation. A shimmering sound from the French horn accompanies Anastasia in motion, her bare feet catching the light as she crosses the stage. Unscripted, the gathering applauds again. She jaunts to the chair with arms stretched to the heavens. Grandpa says she is a ham, and she can’t deny it. Hopeful notes from the horn bring them to The Telling’s end, and she sits, picking up the microphone.
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Immigrants and differently abled individuals alike adopted the descriptor Empaths and live in harmony. Here we are, forty years later, having rediscovered what society already knew about the eco-system, but ignored or forgot. Mother Earth provides for us if we preserve and honor her.
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The collective members stand in front of their chairs and bow in four directions to Gaia, the self-regulating earth. With a final, resonant clang of Anastasia’s gong and a graceful bow, The Telling came to a close. The solemnity overrides her typical teenage defiance, causing her to rethink their planned revolt. This supportive society is the only one she’s known. Friends crowd the stage with congratulations, and her best friend whispers in her ear, “Do it.” She breathes in the familiar odor of hot humanity. The founders’ grandkids are counting on me. The space possesses an expectant air as the younger people reclaim their seats. Everyone focuses on her.
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“Now, for The Report.” Anastasia walks to the edge of the stage, meets her friend’s gaze, and nods. She piles her dreadlocks into a coil at the top of her head with a pin and becomes taller than any previous storyteller in her recollection.
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“The yield is down.” Blood throbs in her ears. Those words remained unspoken, even when true. She concentrates on keeping her knees steady to prevent them from buckling.
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“Our community failed in its effort to start a movie industry. The elders described it as a setback. Perhaps we were foolish, yet some dreamt of stardom.”
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“Teens are bored.”
Heads nod in the audience. A boy raises his fist.
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“We’re looking to reconnect with people across the globe. It can’t be as risky as it was.” She tries not to think about her dad, who was her hero before Grandpa.
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Is the cruelty we hear true?” She suppresses the horror she felt when listening to the elders tell their stories. Books she’s read prove there are good people outside. How can she not be confused?
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“We want to travel and learn on our own.” The elders have always discouraged us from doing this, expressing genuine concern for our safety, but we’re suffocating. Isolation had been forced on grandpa’s generation, but no-one is holding us back but them.
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A few heads shake in disapproval. The air is stifling.
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Focusing her gaze on the front row, “What would you give to see the ocean and snow, right?”
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The grandkids and some of the elders’ children stand and clap.
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Emboldened, “We need a younger leader who can bring us forward.”
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The audience buzzes but remains tense. Not all the elders agree with her grandpa about elevating her age group to leadership.
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“Consensus is slow—should we consider representatives?” Grandpa hates that idea.
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A lone cough echoes in the auditorium. Heads turn toward the elders.
Old Ralph raises his hand and calls her name. Anastasia nods, noting his softer than usual tone. “We will call a special meeting to discuss your concerns. In the meantime, ring the damn wedding bells. I’m ready for the feast.”
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Anastasia understands the upcoming group wedding ceremony is essential for their continued success. She knows a few of her friends will refuse to take part.
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***
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Pleasantly buzzed from the wedding celebrations, Anastasia opens the front door of their house and listens for signs Grandpa is still awake. The hiss-pop of the breathing machine and acrid smoke from his cigarettes drift through the bedroom door, signaling his status. He is propped up by a pillow in bed, the fan whirring.
“Grandpa, how’re you feeling? I’m sorry I wasn’t home soon enough to transfer you.”
Long ago he’d given up on his clumsy mechanical legs and appreciates her help. For the last decade, since her father vanished during a San Francisco reconnaissance mission, she’s been doing this. He touches her cheek as if it is more precious than water.
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He'd told her that his birth defect causing lower limb loss was called Amelia. She often wondered about that name and if it was hereditary. With internet access, she could discover the truth. Sometimes even the elders grumbled about how they missed this easy way to get knowledge.
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“My dear, I’ve exceeded my life expectancy, and my digestive and respiratory systems are failing.” In between the rhythmic mechanical sounds, he whispers. “I’ve stayed long enough for you and our community to grow up. They will provide for your needs.”
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It's hard to draw oxygen from the air, as if she is the one connected to his machine.
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“No, Grandpa, you can’t leave me.”
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In the room, her ears fill with the echo of her own treasonous words from the ceremony. Consensus too slow… failed community… She buries her wet cheeks into his woven shirt and listens to his lyrical voice.
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“I had a beautiful dream this evening. Love, light, and understanding shimmered around me and across the world. Water flowed like a mighty river. I was sure it was the future, only it wasn’t mine. You are the light I will leave behind, and I hope you’ll shine it on our community.”
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Panic and grief replace her fruit-of-the-vine buzz. She loves him. He wants her to stay.
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“Now is the occasion to share my memory reels with you, Ana. Tonight, I compressed them to tell you a story.” He handed her a micro adaptor for her headset. “Tomorrow, when you’re rested and not so tipsy.” He smiles. “I need to sleep now.”
***
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Anastasia wakes herself early, and scrambles to put on the headset. Memory reels are usually kept private. She would never share hers. Grandpa’s first one is stamped with the date 2029, when he was a kid.
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“Mom, help me attach my legs? I hope today they won’t hurt so much.”
“When you wear them, you’ll be as tall as everyone else in the first grade. They’ll expand as you grow.” Mother had done the research.
“Do I have to go? I’d rather stay home.” I glance around my comforting room, lingering on my computer. An urge to pee comes over me. Hold it in!
“You’re smarter than most kids, honey. It’s time to explore beyond our house.” She pleads with her eyes. “It’s important to build friendships.”
Mom’s the one who’s smart. She might forget to put her socks on like me, but the President of the United States called her to ask for help with AI. She ruffles my hair, trying to disguise her strained smile as she hands me a backpack and leads me to the front patio that overlooks Morro Bay.
I wish I didn't cry when she left me at the classroom door. The kids' eyes are on me as I shuffle to a seat. I don’t walk like them. Heart thumping, I gaze at animal pictures, space maps, and weather patterns that hang on the windowless walls. Mom already taught me how to read so I can use the computer, but I like science too. Teacher is nice, testing each student's new memory card with a smile. “Everyone, follow me outside for a play break.”
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Anastasia understands that fear or panic can hinder the recording and disrupt transmission. She hears a long static before her grandpa’s childhood memories resume.
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A pug-nosed bully looms above, my legs scattered on the artificial turf. My fingers clutch the grass. Try to pull myself up. Teacher runs over. My pants are soaked, but I refuse to cry. The other kids stare but do nothing. I’m never coming back.
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Anastasia exhales. What next?
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***
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Grandpa Antonne, Time stamped 2039, ten years later
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The tickle comes again. It’s different from how I feel when watching girls on my secret websites. I need to get on-line. After two years, I’m so close. My brain hums. I’m the most skilled in my group. Mom thinks hacking is bad, but it’s the only way teens can fight back. She can’t know I'm almost into the federal government server.
I’ll get my chores done fast and explore for a few hours before she gets home.
In the zone, I type so fast the keys stick. I force myself to slow down, and I scroll, index after index, until I find the Top-Secret division. The bright screen flashes red. “WARNING: Unauthorized persons will be prosecuted.” I throw my hands in the air and almost fall out of my seat. “I’m through the wall!”
I check my watch to see the time I have before Mom is home from her mysterious job. One more hour. Nuclear secrets require a thumbprint, so I bypass that section. Blackmail folders are sorted by countries. Engaging, but not my search. Military readiness, war plans, UFO Bases; no.
Climate Change Scenarios. I didn't know what to call it, but that's it! The topic that affects the entire world. Resources dwindling, revolution in the air, and what does the government plan to do? Present officials are blaming past leaders. I open the section and see many files. What?
File name Angela Hague pops out. Mom! My heartbeat quickens. I’ll finally learn what she’s been working on. I hear her steps and shut my laptop.
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***
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Grandpa Antonne, Time stamped 2042, three years later
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“Antonne, please bring me another pillow, my pain pills, and my laptop.”
The window drapes are drawn close, and the air is stale like a cave.
Mom is so pale and gaunt I want to gather her up and carry her to the beach, but I can’t do that. It’s one of my many failures. She hates that I smoke. I haven't provided her with the satisfaction of knowing I'll have a fulfilling life ahead of me. Her confidence in my success always sustained me during my depressive bouts, but now she’ll be gone in a matter of weeks. Hard to believe lung cancer still has no cure. Damn air pollution from wildfires.
Transmission break. . . perhaps excessive adrenaline hormone, fear, or panic? In this case, it could be sadness, thinks Anastasia.
Unfair that it takes the best. And Mom’s the best. The wheels of my chair whisper against the soft carpet as I roll over her items.
She picks up my hand and murmurs, “Antonne, you’ll be on your own soon.”
I don’t require reminders.
“Most importantly, I love you, and you’ve brought me great joy.” She lifts my chin and forces me to look her into her eyes, a pool of love. Their sparkle precedes a mischievous expression. “Your greatest quality is empathy . . . and your greatest talent is hacking.” She forms a knowing smile as she opens her laptop.
I must appear surprised.
“Yes, I’m aware.”
Of course she knows.
“After careful thought, I’ve decided to share something I’ve otherwise sworn to secrecy.”
I lean in to catch every word as her voice is faint. Is there anything I haven't learned?
“I discovered a disruptive proposal and I’ve been working with our administration for the last ten years to mitigate it. Autocrats hatched a plan to block most internet transmissions by turning off known servers. Trigger date to be determined when they try to capture world resources.” Mom loses energy and pauses to regain strength.
A flush of color returns to her face. “The Fifth Dimension is a back-up plan my team and I created, which will launch a simultaneous underground network.” I know all this, but don’t say.
She asks for water, and I hold the glass to her parched lips.
“There’s more. I have Top Secret clearance and I read a memo this month. Faced with uncontrolled climate migration, the government will not interfere with forced relocations or deportations. Local political leaders may determine these economic interest actions.”
“What does that mean?”
“Los Osos’s population doubled in the last year, and you’ve seen the bare grocery shelves. Something could happen anytime, and I’m afraid you might be targeted.”
“Mom, I hacked your file.”
“I know. Our spyware decoded your IP address.”
We both smile. So connected, her loss will be worse than losing my limbs.
“But you couldn’t have learned about upcoming deportations. And you don’t have the password into the newly launched network. It’s powerful. You might find this useful, Antonne,” and she removed her inscribed ring and placed it in my palm, closing my hand.
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Great-Grandma Angela, it was you! The underground network. Powerful, but deadly for dad.
***
Grandpa Antonne, Time stamped 2047, five years later
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“Antonne Haege. I am a 24-year-old information security analyst, and I live in a small coastal town that still has livable temperatures. We are one of the few black families here. For recreation and necessity, I kayak for habitat restoration, grow a garden, and harvest fog. I’m not bad looking, but I am sometimes limited by a lack of lower limbs and agoraphobia.”
Too flowery? Too glib? Dorky? The differently abled dating forum encourages pride and truth. I’ll just type it—
“Kids used to call me 'no-leggie Hague'. I’m looking for a woman who loves herself.”
Before I leave the room, the message light flashes. A video shows a tall woman with kinky dark hair and a folded sleeve on her dress. “I’m proud, I’m black, and I want to be with someone who is resourceful and not full of pity. Don’t worry yourself; if you’re a good man, my love of people will drown your fears.” Yolanda
Aha! That’s Gramma Yolanda. I miss her. I suppose I inherited her spunk. And my resourcefulness from Great grandma, even if I never met her.
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***
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Grandpa Antonne, Time stamped 2050, three years later
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Yolanda is cursing me in our home birthing room, the bedsheets soaked with her sweat. The piercing scream of her final push obliterates the sounds of unrest beyond the door; transport vehicles, protests, broken dishes, children wailing. My boy joins the chorus, is born with a stork bite, the red mark of a warrior, and I ask permission from my tired love to name him Marcus. A sense of wonder washes over me as I count four limbs. I’m fearful we made the wrong decision to bring him into this world, but look at him!
We must comply with orders to evacuate this town now that he’s born. I’ll be brave for Yolanda and baby Marcus, even if I’m scared shitless.
The baby is Dad! I note another transmission disruption. The deportation must have been horrible.
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***
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Time stamped 2074, twenty-four years later
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Marcus met this extraordinary white girl in Los Osos. He rode his motorcycle during the cooler night hours to visit his birthplace. My only boy reported scant cars, tents on the streets, a rotten vegetable stench from the yellow algae blanket covering the bay, and low-lying houses flooded by rising seawater. They obtained water from a desalinization plant. He knocked on the door of the rare, unfenced house and introduced himself to Le Anne. She was sewing tents for new immigrants from the sweltering inlands. Marcus was enchanted; he found a warrior like him.
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So… they liked my mom before she returned to the coast, married someone, and abandoned me.
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***
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Grandpa Antonne, Time stamped 2080, six years later
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‘Why isn’t Daddy back, Grandpa?’ complains 8-year-old Anastasia, encased in her cooling jacket, fretting about his absence at her soccer game. Hoping my info is wrong, I say, ‘he’ll be home soon.’
I retrieved a message from the Fifth Dimension. San Francisco surprised us by reaching out, as it fares better than most with its cooling ocean breezes. Invaders from the north siphoned their water tanks. On a reconnaissance mission, Marcus departed for the city five days ago and was supposed to return in time for the soccer game.
Each city has become its own island, hoarding their resources. It’s dangerous to travel, with armed, violent opportunists roaming the highways, but Marcus usually drives with impunity because his truck logo identifies him as an Agriculturalist, producing food for the state.
Although there is some static, I make out grandpa’s panicked thoughts.
​
Keep it from Ana. Be safe, my boy.
​
Fear reenters my chest as I remember those days before we heard the terrible news. I’m proud of Dad, but we had an agreement he would never abandon me. What happened to that, Dad? Why the hiding, Grandpa Antonne, and why the sudden reveal?
​
***
​
Anastasia brings a cup of coffee to his bedside and gives him a probing glance.
​
“You kept so much hidden from me. I’m not a kid anymore!”
​
“We wanted children to live their lives without fear and deprivation, unlike our generation. Hikes in the forest, swimming in the lake, picnics. Supportive neighbors and friends. Learning how to protect our environment. It's been great, right?”
​
She towers over him. “We’ve had everything, but it hasn’t been real.”
His body shrinks, as if his life force drained.
​
“What is real are the losses our family endured. Your father; my son. My mother’s cancer, our coastal house, Yolanda’s parents’ house, and even your mom’s abandonment of you was influenced by the climate crisis.”
​
The memory reels brought them to life, as if they were movie characters. She sits down by his bedside. Anastasia wonders aloud, “Couldn’t it be different out there now?”
​
“There’s still much strife. I would worry about you. Cooperation is scarce in this country. ”Grandpa continues, “The collective of Empaths disconnected from the compromised internet. The hardest part for me was concealing the Fifth Dimension from everyone, including you. If it was outed, it would be useless as an aggression notification tool. I made peace with myself. I’ve always hoped we could reintegrate, but many places still struggle. Danger is immanent.” He tilts his head. “We never considered we were robbing our children of choice.”
​
Anastasia tries to control her exasperation. “We’re not free if we don’t have choices.”
​
The oxygen machine’s power increases. He turns his head as his eyes tear. She swallows, but is not ready to give up.
“Why can’t we all access this alternate network now?”
​
Grandpa pulls himself together. “Simple—bad actors would corrupt it, like the previous network. Its purpose is to post problems, share solutions, and request help with emergencies. Extensive clearance is required to get a password. Security is my obligation and promise.” His shoulders droop from the heavy burden.
​
She understands his protectiveness but doesn’t want it and stands up to her full six feet. “Where does my age group fit in?”
​
Grandpa’s forehead’s lines, like deep gullies, and graying hair are his only visible signs of age. They deepen. She senses he’s reading her mind—does he have it wired—and knows about her rebellious remarks last night? Then his face relaxes, and he appears thoughtful.
​
“Youngsters should have a choice. I honestly don’t know if the ones we made for you and your parents were the best. It seemed so at the time. Much of the world is still dangerous. My mom…she was remarkable. As you learned from my memories, your dad was brave, and your mom was charitable. You’re like them.”
​
Anastasia knows her grandpa loves her, but still, she swells with his comparison.
​
“However, our struggle claimed their lives or their presence. Take the password and continue my work . . . or not. Your life will be safe here, and your leadership and qualities will be appreciated.” His voice lowered. “Choose carefully.”
​
Anastasia believes Grandpa hoped his memories would imprint his fears on her, but she has a different response. Her father reached out beyond The Valley of the Empaths, and so did her mom. Grandpa connected the world. Her Great grandma had prescience. Their blood runs in her veins. She can’t deny it and understands her calling. As a breeze moves the curtain, clarity and lightness wash over her, dispelling any doubt.
​
“Thank you for sharing your precious memories. You’ve always been my hero, but even more so now.
Isolation was forced on you. I understand your need for self-sufficiency then. But our generation needs to teach others to cooperate. Contribute our knowledge and resources in a fair way. Learn from others.”
​
He offers a slight smile and nod. “We’ve taught you too well.”
​
“The password still might come in handy.”
​
“Smart girl.”
​
She attempts to smile. “I want to explore the world. Maybe find my mom. You understand?”
​
“Yes, I do.”
​
“Of course, I’ll help you to the other side before I leave.”
​
He takes her hand and kisses it before letting go and falling into a peaceful sleep.
​
Higher Ground
Higher Ground
Climate Change Series 5
By Sharon D. Sheltzer
Ayuluk’s sister stuck out her tongue and turned her back on Rayuluk when he yelled at her to hurry. He didn’t enjoy being responsible for his siblings. When his father was around, the girls were more respectful. Despite being a proud member of the resourceful native peoples of Alaska, the Yup’iks, it was overwhelming at twelve years old to stand in for his aata (father). While he enjoyed hunting geese and fishing, skills passed down by Aata, ensuring his four younger sisters made it to school on time tested his patience. They knew he had no authority over them. Before his family moved, the girls had looked up to him and viewed him as a valuable playmate. He longed for the times his sisters pretended he was the village chief or the warrior protector, and they did everything he said.
​
His mother labored as the only wage earner now, too busy for the girls. Each day at dawn, she braided herring strands and hung them to dry, and every afternoon she sold them at the market. The family relied on her income from the fish to supplement their gathered berries, goose eggs, and tundra greens. The two oldest were getting wild with no supervision and his aanaq (mother) cried again last night. Rayuluk awoke from his slumber and pressed his ear against her door. He tried with all his might to hold back tears. He imagined she missed Aata who kept the girls in line, and her former teaching job.
​
It was Saturday, and he told his mother he would be off hunting all day. It was mostly true. He left out the part where he would also visit his father. He sensed she wouldn’t approve—Aanaq was stoic like most in their village. Rayuluk put on galoshes, left their new village of Mertarvik, and prepared to hike nine miles downriver to his former village, semi-abandoned Newtok. The elders often spoke of their 2000-year history in this region, understanding that nature turned against them for not stewarding the land properly; something white people called ‘climate change.’
​
He would beg his aata to return home and abandon his walkway upkeep, that made it possible for the remaining residents to reach their school, church, and store. They hadn’t seen each other for 3 months; will Aata be happy or scold him for the weakness of putting himself before the community? Perhaps with Rayuluk’s help, his father could finish his work early and be with the whole family once more.
​
Rayuluk passed the temporary housing area on the way out of town and greeted friends playing kickball on the dusty street.
​
“Hey Lucky, we need a rover.”
​
If only he didn’t have such a long walk ahead of him.
​
According to the migration plan set in place before his birth, his family moved to their new house four months ago, without his father. They were grateful to leave behind moldy walls, cracked ceilings, and honey buckets instead of bathrooms. His sisters’ asthma had disappeared since their move. Even though Mertarvik was dry and had fresh water from a spring, it felt far away, especially when you were missing a part of your family. This would be only the second time he’d seen his aata since the move. Father worked six days a week and was usually too tired to make the trek, and mother sold fish at the market daily, requiring her to rise at dawn.
​
The footpath along the Ninglik River, the life-source for his Yup’ik people, was solid. Different from the eroding edges that crumbled into the river as the remaining Newtok children, further downstream, played hide-and-seek, explored abandoned houses, or searched for eggs. A raven’s shadow followed him, but when he looked up, only clouds peppered the blue sky. He glimpsed it only once.
Rayuluk wondered if he might run into his best friend, whose family lived further inland and had not yet been issued a government house. His friend and he had transformed the abandoned general store by the river’s edge into a merchant ship and pretended to sail around the world, collecting treasures. He stopped daydreaming to focus, and noticed the breeze was crisp but smelled like old snow, as usual. Musty. For Mother, he’ll need to pick berries and track geese, and for Father, collect stones along the way.
​
Burdened by the weight of his gatherings, the boy reached the village, and asked old man Xander, “Where is my aata?”
Xander gestured towards the sinking school, just a brief stroll ahead. Rayuluk observed his father from a distance. Leaning over the partially submerged platform that led to the school entrance, Father took a river stone from his bag. His arms seemed stronger. His jeans were torn at the knees, worse than the last time they were together. His thickness around the middle was gone since he couldn’t take seconds of Mother’s mouthwatering fry bread.
​
The wood planks were 6 inches under water, and weeds on either side reached out of the swamp. Mold spores overpowered Rayuluk’s senses since he had been away from them for a while. He stood by the drinking-water tank, unsure what to say. His shoulder hurt from the bag sling, and his feet were tired. Father used the pole to push rocks to the center, creating a shallow angle, and looked up to assess his progress. His face briefly lit up as Rayuluk waved, but it soon turned into a frown. The son held his breath.
​
“Why aren’t you home, helping Aanaq?”
After swallowing, the boy whispered. “We need you to come home. Here, I gathered some stones along the river.” He stepped towards his father along the sinking boards. The older man’s face softened.
​
Rayuluk emptied his sack, so his aaka did not have to make another trek to the river just yet. The boy placed the rocks under the wood planks and his father skillfully moved them into the best places to make the walkway rise from the water. The planks were rotten, but would have to survive until the migration was complete in six months. With a distant expression, father pressed his lips together.
​
“I miss you ‘Lucky’.” He shoved a weather-shaped rock under the walkway, and it teetered. Rayuluk himself felt a shift in his spirit.
​
“I miss the laughing of your sisters.” Another rock found its place with more force than necessary.
​
“I think of the warmth of your mother every night.” He chuckled. “Especially when I eat my canned beans.” Aata stood and stared at the billowing clouds moving in from the Bering Sea.
​
“But I promised the people of our village, the home of my ancestors, that I would not leave until the last person moves to Mertarvik.”
Rayuluk knew that although his aata was not being paid for this work, he would not leave. Everyone had hoped the move would be complete by now, but there wasn’t money to build all the new houses. It could be awhile.
​
Father suggested they walk to the river to get more stones.
​
“With your help, we can carry twice as many.”
​
Icy water seeped over Rayuluck’s galoshes, but he was warm from the walk, and it felt just right, like walking in his father’s footsteps. Except for the sloshing sound, they were silent until Aata shared his thoughts.
​
“How is your mother?”
​
Rayuluk thought of her quiet sobs that sometimes woke him from a deep sleep. He wanted her to be able to return to teaching children. He wanted to play kickball with his friends.
​
The boy opened his mouth to plea when a glossy, iridescent raven landed on a branch protruding from the ragged bank. It flew down and hopped along the ground in front of them, splattering the mud. Could it be the elusive bird that accompanied him on his journey? A stern squawk startled the boy and riveted his attention towards the raven’s compelling stare. A raven in so many village stories paraded as the hero. His father did not flash shiny feathers, but carried himself with a similar dignity. Rayuluk stood very straight.
​
“She misses you. We look forward to your return when you are done. I can come every weekend to help until the last family joins us.”
​
His father put both hands on his tired shoulders. “I’m proud of my son. You’ve earned the privilege to be ‘man of the family’ until I join you.” Strength returned to his weary body. Getting the girls to school on time wouldn’t be so difficult, as authority had now been bestowed on Rayuluk.
LADY OF THE WAVES
Aallotar Envisioned at Age 12
LADY OF THE WAVES
Aallotar Envisioned at Age 16
Young teen Aallotar wasn’t always scrappy and didn’t mean to punch out Suvi’s tooth. But what could be expected when her family disappears in the 2004 Pacific Ocean Tsunami, her mysterious Thai host conscripts her to panhandling, she’s cheated by drug runners, and assaulted by boys? Convinced her mom is still alive, she endures everything to continue the search for her. Underneath all that is a gifted linguist, a cross-country ski medalist, and a scientist, but to Aallotar it seems impossible to recover. She becomes a recluse..
Daniel, an impressionable young teen, meets Aallotar in Thailand. Since their encounter, his path to bar mitzvah, high school graduation and college is turned upside down. A truck squashes his best friend. He seeks solace in an earth centered commune and finds his purpose in reclaiming a healthy eco-system.
Read Excerpt
He can’t seem to find the right girl; one who finds joy through struggle, like him.
Aallotar, who battles her way to a Finnish university, finds relief from survivor guilt by working on a "tsunami-buster" engineering project. She experiences her first successes with human connections but remains guarded.
Romantic Daniel and wary Aallotar meet again, at age 21, at the Warsaw climate change conference. He doesn’t recognize her. Can she trust him to love her if he discovers her past? Can Aallotar have love and family without losing touch with the project that saved her? Will a traumatized girl fit into Daniel’s solid family?​
The author plans to write more stories with young adults as protagonists dealing with the climate crisis.
LADY OF THE WAVES
Aallotar Envisioned at Age 21
LADY OF THE WAVES
Daniel Envisioned at Age 12
LADY OF THE WAVES
Daniel Envisioned
at Age 21
LADY OF THE WAVES
Aallotar Envisioned at Age 12
LADY OF THE WAVES
Aallotar Envisioned at Age 16
Young teen Aallotar wasn’t always scrappy and didn’t mean to punch out Suvi’s tooth. But what could be expected when her family disappears in the 2004 Pacific Ocean Tsunami, her mysterious Thai host conscripts her to panhandling, she’s cheated by drug runners, and assaulted by boys? Convinced her mom is still alive, she endures everything to continue the search for her. Underneath all that is a gifted linguist, a cross-country ski medalist, and a scientist, but to Aallotar it seems impossible to recover. She becomes a recluse..
Daniel, an impressionable young teen, meets Aallotar in Thailand. Since their encounter, his path to bar mitzvah, high school graduation and college is turned upside down. A truck squashes his best friend. He seeks solace in an earth centered commune and finds his purpose in reclaiming a healthy eco-system.
Read Excerpt
He can’t seem to find the right girl; one who finds joy through struggle, like him.
Aallotar, who battles her way to a Finnish university, finds relief from survivor guilt by working on a "tsunami-buster" engineering project. She experiences her first successes with human connections but remains guarded.
Romantic Daniel and wary Aallotar meet again, at age 21, at the Warsaw climate change conference. He doesn’t recognize her. Can she trust him to love her if he discovers her past? Can Aallotar have love and family without losing touch with the project that saved her? Will a traumatized girl fit into Daniel’s solid family?​
The author plans to write more stories with young adults as protagonists dealing with the climate crisis.
LADY OF THE WAVES
Aallotar Envisioned at Age 21
LADY OF THE WAVES
Daniel Envisioned at Age 12