I'm With the Bears: Short Stories from a Damaged Planet
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The size and severity of the global climate crisis is such that even the most committed environmentalists can drift into a state of denial. The award-winning writers collected here have made it their task to shake off this nagging disbelief, bringing the incomprehensible within our grasp and shaping an emotional response to mankind’s unwitting creation of a tough new planet. From T. C. Boyle’s account of early eco-activists, to Nathaniel Rich’s comic fantasy about a marine biologist haunted by his youth, and David Mitchell’s vision of a near future where oil sells for $800 a barrel—these ten provocative, occasionally chilling, sometimes satirical stories bring a human reality to disasters of inhuman proportions.
Royalties from the sale of I’m with the Bears will go to 350.org, an international grassroots movement working to reduce the amount of CO2 in the atmosphere.
the orange stuff east of Taboose Pass. This was the Cartridge Pluton, Troy told them as they ascended. A very pure bubble of granite. The batholith, meaning the whole mass of the range, was composed of about twenty or thirty plutons, which were the individual bubbles of granite making up the larger mass. The Cartridge was one of the most clearly differentiated plutons, separated as it was by glacial gorges from all the plutons around it. There was no easy way to get over its curving outer ridge
the border of the Country of Youth. Safe, rested and warm in his palace, the Emperor summoned Haji to his gem-encrusted throne-room. The ruler asked his young subject how he had known the trick with the mare and the slaughtered colt. Haji looked the Emperor in the eye and said, “My grandmother told me, Your Majesty.” The Emperor wanted to meet this wise woman. Haji replied, “That’s a little difficult, Your Majesty. When she reached her sixtieth birthday, I persuaded her to go into hiding in the
in sequence to create the illusion of movement: cock in, cock out, cock in, cock out, a little squirt and then it started all over again. Then the cinema closed down. Every now and then they reopened it for a bingo night, though less and less frequently, and in the end it was shut down completely. Not far away was the defunct factory that used to produce the moulds for decoys––for hunting. Plastic ducks. The main wall collapsed, the rain ruined the large containers and the web-footed imitations
its aqueducts blown to smithereens when Arizona wouldn’t stop pumping out of Lake Mead. Pouring water into Maggie’s water trough, and looking around at his dusty patch with Annie out in the fields, Lolo reminds himself how lucky he is. He hasn’t blown away. He and Annie are dug in. Calies may call them water ticks, but fuck them. If it weren’t for people like him and Annie, they’d dry up and blow away the same as everyone else. And if Lolo moves a little bit of tamarisk around, well, the Calies
with those enviro crazies who tried to blow up the Straw. Some of them supposedly ran this way. It’s probably that.” Annie shakes her head, unconvinced. “I don’t know. They could have asked me the same as you.” “Yeah, but I cover a lot of ground. See a lot of things. I’ll bet that’s why they want to talk to me. They’re just looking for eco-freaks.” “Yeah, maybe you’re right. It’s probably that.” She nods slowly, trying to make herself believe. “Those enviros, they don’t make any sense at all.