creative writing on environmental justice
“If we ever wanted to, our friend group could transition nicely into a BDSM circle,” I announce to my friend George as we stare at nearly $1,000 worth of locks and chains in a pile on the living room floor.
“Is that a thing? A BDSM circle?” he asks, looking up from his project of color-coding keys to locks with iridescent nail polish.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “You can . . .
I imagine this building is somewhat well known in this fictional place. I think it was probably converted into living space while the world was busy being a little more post-apocalyptic than solarpunk, with new residents scavenging materials from whatever they could. It’s since grown into a sort of community art project, proud of its history, squatters’ rights, . . .
death cheapens over layered petroleum / so
dense, fishes come upon land to un-breathe;
so dense: we the humans, pococurante—yet we
light torches for the final act of purification.
(Selected from the field guide left on your nightstand)
Common Raven:
Your favorite bird. There was a big one that lived in the hospital courtyard and, on your good days, I’d take you out to see it.
Dustin picks up the sand dollar and rubs it between his fingers, feels the strange chalkiness of it. He studies the delicate etchings, the five-pointed flower, before putting it in his mouth and closing his eyes. The texture against his tongue. The light salt.
Organics are some of the coolest things left over from the Before Times, and Dustin feels like finding . . .
Arthur Corey owns a small house in Port Charlotte, Florida. It’s bright lemon yellow, with a lawn he’s trying to kill, and a carport with no car, where a glass table gathers bong ash in the shade of seagrapes.
Coccoloba uvifera is more closely related to grapes than he is, but less than oak trees are. It has thick, wide leaves and round, edible, purple fruit that grow . . .
I will always miss grocery
shopping—what a word, what a
world where one could shop, verb,
optionality as its own activity, every
store a canvas of choice. Recall:
the last moment Home could be seen
from the viewfinder, blue yet parched,
one last marvel at the size of the beast
we emptied, body of which we tamed
but anger of which we could not
temper. I will back the . . .
Because of the heavy chop that day, there is no time for a tour.
“You shouldn’t have a problem finding things,” the captain tells me. She’s wearing a neon orange vest over her life jacket and a neon orange beanie crushed atop her head, and the overall effect makes her look like a traffic cone. “You’ve looked at the schematics, right? Well, there’s a manual in there, . . .