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Open letter to President Obama part two
Will you challenge climate change?
Read part one here.
I am in charge of the Earth’s central heating; it is I who turns up the dial until I can smell the waft of the burning earth, witness evaporating streams and see flames devouring crops. Oops, I must have forgotten to rewire the sprinkler system. It tickles me pink to watch them begging for water, dehydrated to insanity. Many can’t last a few days in my moisturless sauna and those that do wish that they wouldn’t. I am pleasured when those families go to bed hungry, their stomachs in knots, quivering in pain, and can’t sleep with the ravenousness. The screams of the orchestra of babies is my compilation of Mozart’s most fabulous creations. They are my favourite to watch, so tiny and little and miniature, just like the size of the pits that they eventually end up in.
When I’m feeling a bit giddy, I break up this pattern of droughts. I paint the skies a thunderous, foreboding shade of ebony. I call together the shoals of overcast and grant the prayers of the people; I give them rain. I spit heavily at them, sensations like bullets against skin, indenting the baron earth, stripping apart whatever sparse vegetation is left.
River banks swell and burst until powerful flood waters terrorise the war stricken, poverty filled, and developing nations. Homes, barns and shacks are dragged away, livestock engulfed in the merciless tides, children ripped from their shrieking mothers arms, separated, alone. Trenches that hold sewerage invade streets, rush under doors, lap and splodge at their ankles and feet. Water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink, unless you would like some typhus or cholera with your order. And then the veil of cover rolls back and the sun reclaims the position of power once more.
I love to watch the natives shrink in size along with their hope, their spirit. They have no dreams, no unique, unusual goals or aspirations. They just ponder the probability of feeding their families the next day. Toddlers’ matchstick legs buckle with rickets, so unnaturally shaped; just look at their laughable bow legs. I run my hands along their chests, counting their visible ribs with my fingertips, it feels glorious. Their bloated tummies evidence of worms and malnourishment ridicules their shape even more. Their round skulls sit securely on their pole like bodies, the lollipop effect. I bet if I flick their heads it’ll bobble back and over. I stand back and examine my beautiful scene and my magnificent human sculptures. It is all mine, I am accountable. The creator looked upon his art, and it was good.
My actions and efforts have never gone unnoticed. I am mentioned most evenings on the news; biographies of my legacy are printed in countless magazines and in papers read by men in sharp business suits drinking strong coffee. I am even honoured to be the topic for many writing competitions and debates.
I have many names throughout this vast ever changing world. Scientists have labelled me ‘global warming’, students write essays on me entitled ‘climate change’, but to those people that know me best, who witness my wrath first hand, who absorb the shockwaves of my fury, and bathe in my unstoppable strength; neither of those nicknames are correct. To them I am called the Grim Reaper. There is no escape, I will collect them all.
Care to challenge me Mr. President?
By: Soracha O’Rourke
Find out how you can take action on climate change here.
