The Spot Writers – “Channelling the War of the Worlds” by Phil Yeats

Welcome to The Spot Writers.

This month’s prompt: anything to do with global warming.

This week’s story was written by Phil Yeats. In September, 2021, he published The Souring Seas, the first volume in a precautionary tale about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change. The second volume, Building Houses of Cards, appeared in May 2022. He’s now published They All Come Tumbling Down, the final volume in his The Road to Environmental Armageddon trilogy. For information about these books, or his older soft-boiled mysteries, visit his website https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Channelling The War of the Worlds

by Phil Yeats

“Good afternoon, everyone. Our lead story is the wildfire situation.”

I paused for dramatic effect and waited for Martin, the only other occupant of our subterranean studio, to signal me. He nodded, and I launched into my patter.

“As everyone knows, North America has endured its warmest and driest winter on record. Not just specific parts of the continent; everywhere’s parched. And the trend has continued through spring. It’s much hotter and dryer than usual.

“The grasslands and forests are tinder-dry, ripe for any spark to set them off. Fires are igniting everywhere, and they’re, like, spreading like wildfire.”

I paused again, waiting for Martin’s nod.

“The fires are fiercely aggressive. Our best firefighters with our best equipment cannot contain them.

“Today, we have reports from Los Angeles, Vancouver, and in the east, a small Appalachian Mountain town. We go first to L.A. Take it away, Sam.”

A nondescript white male face appeared on the monitor. “Angelenos are facing a dire situation. Two highways to the north and east are closed, overrun by wildfires, and we’re feeling hemmed in. Out of control fires on the north and west of the city, the Pacific Ocean to the west, and the Mexican border to the south. No letup in sight. People are panicking.”

On Martin’s signal, I continued with my narrative as my face replaced Sam’s on my monitor. “Next, we venture up the Pacific coast and across the international border to Vancouver. What’s the situation in the frozen north?”

“Not frozen, that’s for sure,” our correspondent said with a laugh. “The immediate concern here is two Stanley Park fires that ignited overnight. They’ve joined to make one huge out-of-control fire. The road through the park to the Lion’s Gate Bridge is closed, and the city engineers fear damage to the hundred-year-old suspension bridge. That would disrupt traffic for months, perhaps years.

“Vancouver’s crown jewel, four hundred hectares of forest primeval in the centre of the city, will henceforth be a major scar on her landscape.”

After a brief pause, another face created by artificial intelligence disappeared from the screen, and I plunge on. “Turning now to the eastern side of the continent…” I make a theatrical pivot away from the camera.

“Wow, what’s that? Sorry folks, I’m looking through our studio window at the forest behind our station. We’re at the edge of a major North American city and the wildfires are suddenly right on our doorstep. I can see flames that weren’t there five minutes ago. And wow, another flareup only 300 metres from us…” I pause again, allowing our audience to feast on the video feed of an encroaching forest fire.

“Sorry folks, we must go, abandon ship, jump from the ramparts, get the hell outta here. Everyone, we’re leaving. Now!”

Martin reached over and touched my shoulder. “It’s okay, I killed your mike. You can cut the histrionics.”

I relaxed. “Worked well, don’t you think? Will you run a disclaimer?”

“Already running. It says your report is a work of fiction that describes a scenario that could easily occur anytime, anywhere. I’ll repeat it two or three times and end the broadcast.”

I smiled. “Sounds great. We did well, didn’t we?”

“For sure. Our hit rate started jumping half way through your spiel. Can’t do better than that, and it must be the start of a viral video.” He paused for a breath. “You ran long, so you’re running late. You gotta get outta here and off to work.”

I glanced at the time on my phone, grabbed my bike, and headed for the solid steel door that separated Martin’s underground studio from the outside world. I pulled open the door and pushed my wheels along the dingy passageway. A minute later, I emerged into the hot, grimy world of urban decay and pedalled toward the city centre.

Sorry. No mention of who I am or what I do for a living. If the powers that be locate us, they’ll shut us down in an instant. And Martin, that’s not his real name.

*****

The Spot Writers—Our members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

The Spot Writers – “Again?” by Cathy MacKenzie

Welcome to The Spot Writers.

Along with several short story collections and books of poetry, Cathy has published two novels: WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, and MISTER WOLFE, the darkly dark sequel/stand-alone novel. She has also written two volumes of grief poetry in memory of her son Matthew that she hopes might help other grieving parents: MY HEART IS BROKEN and BROKEN HEARTS CAN’T ALWAYS BE FIXED.

Prompt for this month: anything to do with global warming.

Cathy continues with her Melvin saga. A few more episodes before she draws the curtain.

***

“Again?”

The night of June 29, Marie and I attended a work function. A boring work thingie. Alexander J. Tupper’s surprise birthday, given by his sweet wife, Maggy-May Gamble. Yep, that was her full name. Her maiden name. She was one of those women who didn’t want to be overshadowed by her husband, so she kept her own name. Not sure if doing so helped her. She never amounted to much. Birthed six or seven kids. Never worked. But they appeared to be happy, so more power to her (and Tupper), right?

Marie didn’t want to go. She hated these work functions and always found any excuse to get out of them. This time, however, instead of using William, who was spending the night at Freddy’s, as an excuse, it was Covid.

“Too many people in the same house,” she said. “Covid’s still around, you know.”

“It’s pretty well gone, Marie. How often lately have you heard that someone’s sick with Covid? Or died? Or in the hospital, even?”

“They don’t report stats anymore. They want it out of our minds—we want it out of our minds. And I don’t mean you and me, but everyone. Everyone wants to move on.”

I convinced her she had to go. It was required. My job depended on it. Besides, we’d already had Covid—twice. No way we’d get it a third time.

Marie offered to be the sober driver, so apparently not much fun was to be enjoyed by her.

Who has fun sober?

The party was all right. Tupper was his usual raunchy self—raunchier than me—but since he was my boss, I had to grin and bear it, as they say.

Marie drank two glasses of white wine.

“I’m fine, Melvin. You don’t have to give me that look.”

“Was no look, Marie. If you’re fine, I’m fine.”

We were both fine.

We left the party at nine on the dot. Marie wanted to get home to Dragon’s Den. Or was it Shark Tank? Whatever, it came on at ten, and it’s a thirty-eight-minute drive.

We were barely out of the Tuppers’ door when she admitted she had enjoyed herself. “I made two new women friends.”

Ya, right, I thought. You’ll never see them again until the next office “do.”

“Mel, what’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“Ahead. Well, more to the right.”

I looked. Smoke. What the hell? The two forest fires in Nova Scotia were finally extinguished though I heard firefighters were still looking for those elusive hotspots and, of course, housing needed to be provided for the two hundred or so households that lost their homes. But all that seemed to have gone the way of Covid: in the news for a time until they weren’t.

I scanned the area. Sure looked like smoke. And coming our way.

Now, I’m not a guy that gets scared or anything, but the world’s becoming a scary place. And global warming (I like to call it “global warNing”) is rampant. Even I know that. If only the world would wake up and see the signs. All these naysayers don’t help.

“I think we should take a different route home, Marie. It looks like another forest fire.”

“But if we go the other way, it’ll take an extra thirty minutes. I’ll miss the beginning of Shark Tank. Or is it Dragon Den tonight?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t care. I just don’t want to be stuck smack dab in the middle of a forest fire. Go the other way.” I hated ordering her around, but it had to be done.

She sighed. She knew that tone of mine.

We got home safely. No sign of smoke in our neighbourhood. Despite not having a second egress, we were safe. With the lake behind us and my kayaks, we’d be able to escape to the Atlantic Ocean if wildfires ever came down our street and blocked our only exit. Marie wouldn’t be pleased. Would only bring back memories of how her—our—two sweet girls perished, but…

The next day, Friday, we both woke up sick. Sick as poor old Puddles probably was when he was separated from us. “They” always say: “sick as a dog.”

And we were: sick as dogs!

We had two remaining Covid test kits. I convinced Marie to test herself. Yep, double blue line.

“No sense in me sticking that damn stick into my nose, Marie. If you have Covid, I have Covid.”

“I won’t say I ‘told you so.’ Too many people in one house. But I DID tell you that!”

I had to agree with her. Had to be one hundred people crammed into the Tupper’s home. What had Maggy-May been thinking? And would anyone have noticed our absence had we been no-shows?

“It’s all about global warming, Mel. Covid. Wild fires. Famines…”

“I don’t think Covid has anything to do with global warming, Marie. Just the way of life. Population out of control, etc., etc.”

She gave me one of her looks as if I were stupid.

I called into work to explain my absence. Janine, the receptionist, informed me I was the thirteenth employee to call in. “Glad I had a previous engagement,” she said. “I sure don’t want Covid.”

On Sunday night, I called Tim White, one of my co-workers. Janine hadn’t been exaggerating as she was wont to do. Tim and his wife were sick, too. Super sick! In fact, he’d called Tupper that afternoon, and he’d shut down the office for the week. Tupper and Maggy-May were sick, as well. Had they not been, the office would’ve remained open and Tyrant Tupper would’ve expected everyone at their desks, sick or not.

Global WarNing is a great thing when it shuts down work. Too bad Marie and I were in bed the entire week—and not in bed for a fun reason, either.

Nope, sicker than dogs.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/