Environmental Tales Pt. 2

Lilla:

Grandma’s Footsteps

There was just something so different about grandma’s home, something you would not find in the immaculate designer homes shown on television in every advert. Those pristine, elegantly furnished mansions, painted in a blinding hue of white... They seemed so empty. Whereas stepping into the welcoming arms of the small cottage sitting on the outskirts of town felt natural, like greeting an old friend. The house had it all: The smell of freshly brewed tea, the deep red cushions scattered around the house, the messy rows of books sitting snugly on the large bookshelf towering over the living room, the pleasant chaos that would greet you when you entered. And grandma.

Grandma’s stories were always special. Whenever she would start weaving another tale, we would always gather around her, listening to the soft clicking of crochet needles and eagerly awaiting yet another story of creatures known as “animals,” and giants, so-called “trees”. She would look down on us and smile when seeing the enthusiasm in our glittering eyes. She would tell us about graceful creatures known as cats with sleek fur and beautiful eyes, flowers blooming in dazzling colors, nurtured by the rich soil beneath them, and clear blue skies spotted with white clouds, untainted by smoke. She would describe the soft white flakes of snow spiraling down from the heavens, and the lush green forests with columns of proud trees and thick, dense undergrowth. She would tell us everything about the world she used to live in before they destroyed it. We would drink in her words and feast on her stories like it was the only thing keeping us alive. Because it was. The only light in our dark nights were stories of a wondrous world full of beauty. It was more like a faraway dream, so unlike our reality. Our reality was silver skyscrapers lining the edge of smoky gray skies. Our reality was cement buildings and tainted air suffocating us from the inside. There were no stars to illuminate our skies, only the distant light of streetlamp posts and concrete skyscrapers. Nothing compared to the stories Grandma told. Nothing compared to the lush forests she described.

And then one day, she was gone. They sold her house, her tea set, her deep red cushions, her bookshelf. And here we were with nothing left of her but a bundle of stories and footsteps. Footsteps leading to a new world. It is now up to us to clear the path to it.

“Sometimes footsteps are enough.” - Lilla

Emily:

An Unbreakable Cycle

She looked so sad, so lonely. She seemed lost even though she was in her rightful home. The smoke swirled around her and she coughed. She was only 12 months old and yet, she had seen her whole family torn from the ground. She watched a rogue survivor clamber along with the dead stumps of her distant cousins. He howled and she shuddered. He seemed sad and tired and lost. She watched him and his orange back crawl away, his shagging fur hung over his thin skeleton. The smoke thickened and she heard a distant voice call.

“One more, then we can go home. So far we have collected around 2.6 Tonnes this hectare.”

The atmosphere grew ominous, and she anticipated the creatures next move. She didn’t want to go, didn’t want to let the smoke take her but she had no choice. She couldn’t take on these creatures with their humming grey boxes. She closed her eyes and hung her head. She felt the pain in her ankle but she couldn’t kick it away, couldn’t run away; she was helpless. She swayed and felt the pain dig deeper. This was the cycle she knew. They grew them, then cut them. Suddenly she felt disconnected from her body as she swayed again. Her body hit the ground and she screamed as she broke in half. Then nothing was clear anymore; everything blurred. The last thing she saw was her stump, alone and the only part of her left standing.

‘Somethings are helpless and yet we hurt them which is hurting us.’ - Emily Thompson

Calliope:

I am but a shadow, an echo. Raising myself from the ground, I stare at the world with a new set of eyes. I am old, yet I am young. I can be traced back to the beginnings of the universe, yet my place will forever be in the present. I cannot feel the ground. The winter breeze has no effect on me, and the snow doesn’t chill me throughout. My hands feel weightless, and my feet heavier than all. I am nothing, but I am everything at the same time. All I long for is to experience these phenomena and to learn about my world. Yet I cannot. Can it even be considered my world? Because I will forever be a shadow and an echo of those alive, incapable of feeling.

Turning my face, I traverse the skies with unimaginable speed to glance at the world from above. Silently, I stare disconcertedly. Cities line nearly all the territory, as far as I can see. Hm? I stare confused. My non-existent heart skips a beat. I remember a time when lush forests dense with trees stretched for miles, housing hundreds of animals. How could I have missed this? Disconcerted, I take another step, taking me to a different part of the world. Traveling down to the ground, I stare. I can see the air filled with grey, some parts blackened. Oh? I would gasp if I could. The air I know has no color, pure. When did it blacken to this extent? I slump. Perhaps elsewhere it is better. Silently, I travel to the ends of the world in the skies. I travel to my birthplace, lined with stars and reassuring darkness. As I climb higher, I see the debris scattered everywhere, polluting my precious world with garbage. Oh no. I exclaim, my non-existent eyes falling. How could this have happened? For what could have been a few seconds, or hours, I stare blankly at my shattered world. A single tear drops on my non-existent cheek. I am but an echo, a shadow, incapable of feeling. And yet I feel my non-existent stomach churn with agony for all that was lost. I feel my non-existent eyes close in defeat, and I feel my fingers turn numb. I am an echo of those alive, sentenced to watch the world like a pariah, unable to interfere but forced to observe restlessly. I feel no passing of time, and yet I know my non-existent life is perpetual: to observe, mute, to think, limited, and to continue with my life, unfulfilled and unfeeling.