What it’s like. When the death of your home is someone else’s lesson learned (p. 118).
These are the thoughts of Dario, who lives in a vertical city after sea-level rise claimed his childhood home and forced him to resettle. He watches, captivated, as the artist Yeong-cheol Min sculpts clay into a representation of Dario’s former homeland, a series of barrier islands now raised only in art above the all-consuming waters, made visible through the artist’s careful and deliberate touch.
This scene is from “Accensa Domo Proximi” by Cameron Ishee, one of twelve short stories in Metamorphosis, an anthology composed of winning submissions to Grist’s Imagine 2200 short story contest. Unlike climate change fiction that depicts dystopian and apocalyptic worlds, these stories craft different visions for humanity’s future, ones that offer “hope and faith in our ability as an imperfect but resilient species to unpack past traumas, discard old beliefs and traditions that no longer serve us, and embrace community wherever we are fortunate enough to find, build, and nurture it” (p. xiii).
In Metamorphosis, you will find solar bikes, basic income for everyone, plans for rewilding, hydrogardens, solar lights, regenerative farming, community gardens, gift economies, and guaranteed housing, health care, education and food. There is advanced technology, but it works in collaboration with the humans who created it and facilitates a more sustainable future. As utopian as this sounds, the challenge of achieving these developments is not underestimated or ignored.
In “Cabbage Koora: A Prognostic Autobiography” by Sanjana Sekhar, which details the lives of a diasporic Indian family seeking to preserve their traditions and connections with one another, the transition to a more sustainable future is not straightforward: “The question of who pays for this transition, what carbon taxes get charged or credited and to whom, and who leads the proposed solutions that take the place of the old order… Well, it’s been a thorny time. But it’s also a time of inspired experimentation” (p. 126). In other words, the solutions—and their implementation—aren’t perfect. Thinking of ambitious plans proposed in our contemporary society—the Green New Deal in the United States or the European Green Deal in Europe—these questions sound familiar. They are the ones asked to the politicians and governments behind the proposals: Who will pay? Who will benefit and who will lose out? What values or beliefs are being promoted through these policies? Sekhar explores the complexity of answering these questions in “Cabbage Koora,” but she does so optimistically. In her story, even though there are challenges—like funding, which is a “constant issue for these initiatives” (p. 126)—humans are still on track to get it right, because they are committed to a vision of what can be.
The stories in Metamorphosis also address the devastating realities caused by climate change, including the fact that many of its effects cannot be quickly reversed. Resilience is an essential component of a climate-changed future, and loss, grief, and anger remain present and deeply rooted emotions. In “To Labor for the Hive” by Jamie Liu, a beekeeper forms an unlikely friendship over text with a support person collecting research on how bees can serve as an early warning system for floods. In one of their conversations, the beekeeper, Huaxin, expresses frustration over humanity’s past failures.
HUAXIN: We made the mess that’s making you have to do this whole early warning thing, right?
HUAXIN: selfishly polluting and not caring about nature
SUPPORT: We also realized our mistakes and put ourselves on the path to healing the planet. Isn’t that a good redemption arc? (p. 24)
Like countless generations before, humans continue to write the story of humanity. Our actions and choices shape the plot and craft the narrative arc. In this conversation between Huaxin and the support person, the weight of those decisions—and inevitable faults and wrongdoings—are laid bare. Yet the support person’s response offers compassion: true, humans have lived and exploited selfishly in the past, but that doesn’t mean they have to choose that same path, that same story, for the future.
These ideas of regret, of past missteps, and of the desire for redemption are explored even more poignantly in Louis Evans’s “A Seder in Siberia,” which examines a Jewish family living in Siberia as a consequence of the climate crisis. During the family’s Passover celebration, a long-lost son returns after attempting to secure his family’s repatriation in Texas. He brings with him knowledge of the real reason behind their family’s exile, something the father had hidden from them—that the father was not a victim of the climate crisis, but a perpetrator of atrocities in its wake.
Evans writes: “What happened in Texas was complicated. Drought in the Rio Grande. Crop failures across the Great Plains, from Nuevo-Leon to Iowa. Mass migration along several distinct axes. Dismemberment of the petrochemical industry. Rocket riots over Project Sunshade. Paramilitary violence and military violence…. System failures are as complicated as systems themselves” (p. 152).
In Evans’s story, there is not an easy redemption. The consequences of actions are not so easily reversed. Yet by acknowledging this, Evans opens up the door for a different, perhaps more grounded, understanding of the crisis we face—that we are responsible, that we do carry the consequences of our actions, and that redemption may not come right away. Still, we can be moved by the desire to act differently, and it again becomes a choice: whether one chooses to do as those who came before them or chooses to act differently than even those people they love. In these stories, Metamorphosis reveals how regret, loss, and grief—while experienced negatively—have the power to transform us.
I finished reading Metamorphosis the week that Hurricane Helene came ashore through the Gulf of Mexico, bringing unprecedented rainfall and destruction in six states across six hundred miles—including the state where I currently reside, North Carolina. Fueled by record-breaking warm waters in the Gulf of Mexico, Helene destroyed houses, businesses, roads, towns, and cities. Like Dario in “Accensa Domo Proximi,” countless people looked on as the waters rose and their homes washed away.
The attention to the destruction caused by Hurricane Helene is pointed and widespread—Google “Hurricane Helene, western North Carolina” and countless articles and Youtube videos will populate your screen. Yet whether this event will join the ranks of other natural disasters made worse by climate change but failing to catalyze climate action will be determined in the coming weeks, months and years. Alongside news of the disaster, though, stories are breaking through of the people who are there and who are helping one another to survive and to rebuild. There’s a donut shop I love in downtown Asheville that makes the best vegan donuts, and while they remain closed in Helene’s aftermath, they have rallied together with other small businesses to provide food, drinking water, hot meals, and even dog food to local residents. There is resilience here. There is compassion, community, and innovation. Amidst devastation, somehow the best of who we are—who we can be—is on display.
In “Seven Sisters” by Susan Kaye Quinn, a collective of women living and working together on a tea farm are struggling to make ends meet when they suddenly find themselves faced with the decision of whether or not to add another member to their commune. Questions of scarcity, of value, and of how family is defined scatter across the pages. Ultimately, though, it is the power of community that prevails, rooted in hope as a foundation of resilience. As one of the characters reflects, “Hope was no kind of business strategy, but it kept you moving through hard times, waiting on better ones. And family—your chosen ones, your vow, and your love for one another—was what carried you through” (p. 54). This sense of hope, this sense of community, is what I’ve seen alongside the devastation as people come together to rebuild from Hurricane Helene.
For me, it is in showing readers what is possible if we make the decision to change that is the true magic of Metamorphosis. Yeong-cheol, the artist in “Accensa Domo Proximi,” speaks to the crowd that has gathered around him.
Accensa domo proximi, tua quoque periclitatur…. It’s unattributed, but a powerful line. ‘When the house of your neighbor burns, your own home is likewise in danger.’ A millenia-old phrase, passed down through generations. And yet not something our collective human society managed to internalize, at least in certain arenas, until recently. (p. 119)
With the words “until recently,” the narrative of disaster shifts from one of destruction and despair, to one of change and growth; to one that holds the global community of human beings accountable for their actions and what happens to their neighbors; to one that shows we still have the capacity to care if we choose to. At its core, this is what Metamorphosis does—it changes the story from one of hopelessness and apathy to one of action and opportunity.
While Metamorphosis doesn’t shy away from the complicated nature of climate change and our culpability, the stories remain resolutely forward-looking and forward-thinking. Readers of this anthology will travel to both near and far futures, to locations ranging from California and Mexico, to Siberia and the Caribbean. Once there, they will find relationships, communities, and innovation, all rooted in principles of sustainability, inclusivity and justice. Each story is crafted with beautiful and compelling prose, and while painting vastly different futures, they remain in conversation with one another—building on ideas and providing a kaleidoscopic array of possibilities.
Metamorphosis travels through time to futures that we desire and can aspire toward, chipping away at deeply rooted cynicism. And as the climate crisis continues to unfold with devastating consequences around the globe, the urgent need for stories like the ones found in this anthology is increasingly apparent. As a species, as a collective community, there is a longing for the kind of hopeful climate fiction these stories offer, for narratives that give us different ideas, different dreams, different inspirations. We want stories that show us what is possible rather than what currently is. And anticipating readers’ protests that change is messy and complicated, the authors ask us—artfully and subtly—to tap into the reservoirs of strength we inherently hold: relying on one another, on our communities, and on our capacity for love and innovation to collectively pursue a sustainable future. As Rae Mariz writes in “The Imperfect Blue Marble,” a story about a child who has an affinity for marbles made by a local glassmaker, “See, storytellers are time travelers. Always have been” (p. 169).
The storytellers in Metamorphosis are the time travelers of our era, and the work done by Grist and their Imagine 2200 team to bring this project to fruition has uplifted the genre of climate fiction by allowing readers the chance to imagine a future that does not end in the inevitable destruction of humankind and the planet. As the oceans rise and the world warms, as species go extinct and people are forced out of their homes, each moment carries the weight of our decisions: whether we choose to act, or choose to look away.
I will return to Metamorphosis in the coming months and years as a reminder of what is possible and of what my role can be in transforming that possibility into reality, what role all of us can play in creating a different future. In the words of a wise character in “Cabbage Koora: A Prognostic Autobiography”: “Our survival is predicated on our ability to work together” (p. 134).
