Global Warning

Climate warning by chris hall lunasonline
©Cliff Davies 2018

Nobody remembers our world before the Water Wars and the Mass Migrations; before we lived encapsulated, drinking endlessly recycled water, harvesting lab-grown meat and veg.

Ancient archives show protests, marches, passionate appeals.  Ultimately ignored.

If only we could warn them.

But would the fat-cat industrialists and their puppet politicians listen?

Climate Strike 20.09.2019

 

 

Woman scorned no more

woman no longer scorned by chris hall lunasonline

She holds the golden sphere in the palm of her hand. It glows, warm with all that remains of him. She has him now, resting in the palm of her hand. His soul, trapped. He in her power; not she in his.

Revenge is sweet, she thinks.

She curls her fingers and feels the sphere pulsate. She turns and walks the few steps to the bridge. Leaning on the rail, she watches the greasy, grey river flow beneath her.

She tosses the sphere in the air and catches it. Tosses again; lets it fall.

Goodbye traitorous heart, she whispers.


Written in response to The Aether Prompt: May 22nd, 2019

Cepha’s Revenge

Cepha's revenge

Cepha observed the two galleons turn broadside. As greed and hatred erupted into sea-churning canon fire, she flung a tentacle into the pool beside her, summoning the sisterhood.

They came, they writhed, and the sea boiled. They pulled timbers apart with zealous suckers. Masts crashed onto splintering decks. Water gushed in.

For the humans must pay: creatures, so new to old Mother Earth, now plundered her riches and fought over them.

Cepha stirred the pool again.

Coins and trinkets emptied from chests were gathered up by eager tentacles, while sailors sank into the murky depths.

Calm returned.


Written in response to The Aether Prompt: March 13th, 2019

Brief Encounter

steenbok-by-nigel-whitehead-on-safari-wildlife-photography.jpg
Steenbok ©2015 Nigel Whitehead On-Safari Wildlife Photography

The sun is low in the sky, but the baked-on heat of the day throbs out of the concrete stoep.  The bush sings with insects.  I sip my sundowner slowly, the sharp, grassy taste lingering on my tongue, the liquid cool in my throat.  Condensation beads on the glass and drips drops of fine rain on my bare knees.  Wood-smoke from someone’s early evening braai wrinkles my nose.

The thicket rustles and a tiny antelope appears in the small clearing beyond the stoep.  He sees me and freezes.  I keep still-still not wanting to frighten him.  We stare at each other.  I hardly dare breathe.  He is so close, so wild and timid.  Motionless, our eyes locked together, a minute passes, two…

‘Top up?’ a large hand holding a green bottle accompanies the question.  The little animal starts and skips off into the bush.  The spell is broken.

©2018 Chris Hall