If you’re in Canada or on the East Coast of the United States, your sky probably looked like this or worse over the last week. It’s been an eerie time. I’ve stared at the sky so much in the last couple of days trying to recognize it. Most of the time, it felt like I was somewhere other than Earth.
Two days ago, I asked myself, “If the sky remains looking like this due to climate change, what would I tell my grandchildren about what it used to look like?”
What follows below is an answer to that question expressed in a short story. Thoughts of the climate crisis sometimes paralyze me, my climate anxiety set to maximum. Climate fiction often intensifies that feeling. Oddly enough, creating this was cathartic. I wanted to include some hope, a reminder to myself that there’s always hope.
I challenged myself to keep this under 1,000 words. I went over, but I’m not mad. Just over a thousand words in two days. I can digg it.
As usual, there are action steps below the story. Stick around. Take action.
For the best experience to this, listen to Fire by the Silos by Toska while reading this. That album served as the musical backdrop while I wrote this piece.
Lush
Kenyatta Muzzanni, 2023
On the really humid days, my grandparents like to reminisce about the times when the sky was blue.
They say the whole of Earth was bluegreen, filled with trees, flowing water, and a horizon that stretched farther than anything you could imagine. Misty-eyed with tales of their youth, my grandparents talk of walks in the woods surrounded by lush greens, rich browns, and blue skies.
Lush. I had to ask the meaning of the word. Nothing in my lifetime has ever been lush.
“We’d walk for hours under the sun and sky. It was incredible.” Grandma Kay drops her pick to take a careful sip from her canteen. “My feet would hurt for days, but what I wouldn’t give to walk under that sky again.”
“Keep moving, Ma. The more you keep talking the slower you dig.” I look towards my own mother, lifting my visor to see her better. Without needing to see her eyes under her blackened goggles, I can feel the daggers she’s throwing her mother, my grandmother. “We can’t keep slowing our dig because you’re living in the past.”
“If we don’t keep talking about the past, there will be no inspiration for our future.” They watch each other for a moment, stopping only when Grandma Kay releases my mother’s gaze to resume her dig.
We’re mining today. It’s more like scavenging, but Gigi – my other grandparent – says that scavengers often survive when no one else does. Surviving is what we’ve done ever since the sky went dark.
From what I’m told, it happened in the ‘30s. Exact dates are hard to know, but it was some time after the wildfires began. Like most people, my grandparents couldn’t afford to leave the country. While the affluent fled from the consequences of their own doing in droves, everyone else was stuck on this continent to work for them. My grandparents, their friends, and many others built resistance organizations to stay alive. Generations later the sky has only gotten worse, and most of Earth has the same sky that I’m looking at right now. But we’re still here. Still fighting.
There’s roughly 40 of us in our cell, my mother being one of the three leaders in our organization. She took up the role after my grandparents’ health made them slow down. Much like the other leaders of their time, they’ve done enough to get us this far.
One way we’ve survived is through mining. As a collective, we mine for everything: silver and other metals for tools; cobalt for our phones; but mostly we mine for water. The rain can’t be trusted. The sky and sea are filled with so many toxins that prolonged exposure can lead to infections. Drinking rainwater has severe consequences. Most consequences you don’t come back from.
I spot Gigi a few yards ahead of me leaning over their cane and walk towards them. We’re headed south towards Gullah territory where there’s supposedly clean water and an allied organization for us to work alongside. Our journey began months ago, north in Pequot land where my Grandparents lived during the blackouts. After all this time, we’re close. I can feel it.
Gigi welcomes me towards them with a wave, faded fuchsia curls framing their face. “Almost there, honey,” they say as if they heard my thoughts.
“Hi Gigi.” My smile cracks my lips, but I don’t care. “Have you found any—"
“STORM’S COMING!” Someone yells. “TAKE SHELTER!”
“Head for the rocks, we’ll set up camp there!” My mother’s voice a crescendo. The orchestra begins.
I instinctively grab Gigi’s free hand and turn towards the rock face to begin our safety checks. Tap for integrity. Scan for predators. Repeat times three. I nod in the direction of the others around the rock face who completed their checks. We’re ready.
“Have I ever told you about the different yellows of the sun?” Gigi whispers to me amid the growing chaos. The smaller children have started to cry, and the adults are yelling directions at each other. I’ve heard this story over 1,000 times, but I have her tell me again. It helps to focus on her as the overture begins. “The sun used to cycle between shades of yellow and red depending on the hour.”
For longer than I’ve been alive, the sun has been a perpetual orange haze in the sky. An orange that seeps into you, primal fears of dangers awaken.
“That’s beautiful, Gigi. I bet you loved being out in the sun.” Others are starting to fall in line beside us on the rock face, waiting for the Shoots.
“Oh, all the time. That’s why I got it on me forever,” they point to a faded sun tattoo on their collarbone. “I have it with me all the time, like I have you with me all the time.” Gigi lifts a hand that has been through hell and back to cup my face.
Closing my eyes briefly, I cover their hand with mine. “You’ll get to see it again – I know it. We all will one day.”
When I open my eyes, I see my mother standing ahead of the crowd. With the wind whipping behind her, my mother tosses a small circular device on the ground and steps back, bracing for impact. After a beat, our temporary shelter comes to life around us, encasing our cell in a nearly break-proof dome. Shoots are some of the only protections we have from the storms that rage over Earth. They keep us safe from hazards while we make these long treks in search of water, community, and freedom.
“I’m closing the hatch now!” My mother presses a button, and the top hatch closes, snuffing out all sound from the outside. I’m left with my own ragged breaths, and the ragged breaths of my comrades. The children’s fussing starts to fizzle out, parents whispering words of reassurance into their ears.
“You’ve got to stop dreaming, Skye. Those stories won’t do you any good.” I turn to find my mother beside me, lifting her goggles. After seeing her face for the first time in days, all I see is disappointment in her eyes. While she chooses to live in the real world, I’m often dreaming of others. “They never did me any good.”
I look for Gigi to find that my grandparents have taken refuge in each other. Like clockwork, the younger children gather around them, some already sitting around their feet. It isn’t long before Gigi and Grandma Kay begin telling stories of rivers, sunshine, starlight, and of other things most of us have never seen before. Their stories are the only way we get to experience blue skies.
My feet walk towards the far corner of our encampment just beyond my mother’s line of sight where I can listen. Despite what she says, I dream. Of the past, and of the future. Of lush greens, rich browns, and blue skies. I dream of safety. Of rainwater that’s not only safe enough to drink, but safe enough that I can allow myself to be consumed by it.
It’s the only dream I’ve had for the last fourteen years.
It’s the only dream that keeps me alive.
Take Action
When I get climate crisis paralysis, it’s usually followed by my anger that a bunch of greedy motherfuckers are harming this planet for their own gain. It’s more complex than that, but in the moment, it helps me climb out of the paralysis.
If you’re angry like me, here are some things to read with some action steps:
There are currently forever toxins in our rainwater. You can learn more about how to stop this here.
There are currently people mining in the Democratic Republic of Congo for the cobalt that makes the smartphone you’re reading this on run. You can learn more about that here.
If you want to get connected to groups working on climate change in Connecticut, get involved with Seaside Sound Club.
For national work on climate change, get involved with Extinction Rebellion, a global direct-action and civil disobedience group focused on the climate crisis.