by Jay Lake
Mistakes were made. It was said that someone had been selfish, unthinking, greedy. Some people claim it was everyone's fault. Everyone knows it was someone's fault. Avoiding the issue has become the last, great sport of the human race.
The weather used to be good. It was talked about all the time, but nothing was ever done. Once upon a time that was a joke, until the skies began to kill. They withheld rain, they poured down searing sunlight, they killed through drought and fire and burn.
It wasn't always like this. There used to be green trees, between which an SUV could be driven on a Sunday afternoon until the leaves flickered by like a colorwheel on the brink of madness. There used to be golden fields of grain, over which an airplane could be flown while they were looked down upon like the glyphs of a great national written in triticale. There used to be clear-flowing rivers, on which mighty powerboats could be driven in a thrilling spray of mist while bikinis were worn (and removed) in foredeck play.
If only there had been some way to know what would happen next. If only someone could have expected the future. If only someone with a voice in radio had told the truth. If only someone in politics had looked past the next election.
Now everything belongs to the heat. Mistakes were made. Too bad no one was ever responsible.
© 2008, Joseph E. Lake Jr.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.