They said that glaciers wouldn’t melt,
that science was conspiracy,
a hoax to take our jobs;
and we believed,
believed and dug ever deeper,
deeper just to feed
their furnace on the hill.
But my lungs turned black,
I lost my job to sickness
I lost my house
and worst of all my truck;
and then skies turned wild with rain
the winds brought torrents
and when it ceased for droughts
the ice was gone to feed the oceans,
and now our only comfort
is the schadenfreude, knowing
Mar-a-lago has been lost to waves
while we survive on higher grounds.
The quarry looked just like a glacier which made me thinking of climate change, couldn’t avoid a little sarcasm in the end. I hope it qualifies as a narrative even if it’s written in the form of a poem.
The members of Friday Fictioneer cult gather every Wednesday around the same picture under the leadership of our high priestess Rochelle to chant hundred words of fiction to the same image. It’s a lot like Hotel California, you can check in any time you want, but you can never leave
January 2, 2018