creative writing on environmental justice
“Mom? Why does this freeway have so many lanes?”
“Well Tom, remember when you were six, and the schools were all closed, and you did all your schoolwork as homework? And your teacher came on Zoom every day?”
“Er . . . yes?”
“Well . . . remember, before . . .
momma yell from the kitchen julius buzz her in.
buzz who
my ol high school chum dont you forget turn the hall light on
hall light dont work momma
hall black like the devils ass you open the parlor door get light down there
i done it momma
she call it a parlor goodwill couch goodwill chairs i hear this come up the steps high heels who wear them things
mr robinson watch at . . .
Robot Cities roam the baking deserts of the ocean beds like Baba Yaga huts. They strut about on titanic rusting legs so tall that to fall from the crotch to the ground takes a human 30 seconds. They sing songs, these Robot Cities, melancholic folk songs with introspective lyrics. They sing about shame and adoration, they sing about that sweet moment when love has . . .
Among her many names, the one that remains is Eater of Dirt. The rest have been cast off, but one name is enough to sustain her. The filth-goddess knows the flavor of fairy footsteps, the crumble of dead magic and the taste of tiny living jewels with wings that crunch in her teeth. Men may fling her holy name about as an insult, but they don’t know how sweet and savory . . .
Strange how even in the dark, the eyes find shape.
“The walls are made of flowers,” Amelie says, nestled against me. “White flowers, bigger than I can hold.”
“White as clouds,” I say. “Bright and soft.” Our voices are muted. Collapsed into the space we occupy, just as the space has collapsed into us.
“They smell . . . they smell like . . .
We slide sideways.
You think you would see us, as big as we are, looming over the landscape, but the shale giants know how to slip quietly, one plane against another, and be gone into the fog. We like fog as we like all quiet things. Fog also comes in layers, and that makes us feel safe, at home, almost as safe as if we were still in our burrows.
We wait for our friends, our . . .
Too many people dream,” he said, leaning against the door.
“What do you want them to do, stay awake?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll play Linganian flute to keep you up.” I smiled, miming tooting.
“No thanks. I don’t dream,” he said, walking away. A trail of multicolored fumes followed him, dodging in and out of his spiky hair. Butterscotch and shoe polish scents wafted my way, . . .