House of Zolo's Journal of Speculative Literature, Volume 3

By House of Zolo

The last human alive catalogs the world's species as they go extinct…
A young man prepares to step outside after fifteen years of  quarantine…
Toxic slime covers the earth, giving rise to new forms of life…
A woman finds a rare ticket to see the last tree…
A young girl and an AI form an unlikely friendship…

This volume contains forty-three stories and poems that examine our many potential futures as a species on the verge of catastrophe. Curated and edited by Erika Steeves and Nihls Andersen, The House of Zolo's Journal of Speculative Literature, Volume 3 offers a wide array of perspectives on the crisis of climate change. From nightmarish dystopias to the evolution of new species, the writers in this volume expose what has been lost, and fearlessly explore where the future may take us.

Stories and poems from around the world, featuring:
Joe Baumann, Terri Watrous Berry, JD Blackrose, Robert Borski, Virginia Boudreau, Michelle Cadiz, James Cato, Yuan Changming, Irene Cooper, Deborah L. Davitt, Steve Denehan, Pasiphaë Dreams, RC deWinter, J. Federle, Lew Forester, Justine Gardner, Joan Gerstein, Benjamin K. Hewett, Will Isenberg, Anastasia Jill, Taria Karillion, Ava Kelly, Kajetan Kwiatkowski, King Llanza, E. H. Lupton, Christopher R. Muscato, Russell Nichols, David Oje, Jim O'Loughlin, Jeanne Panek, Polly Phokeev, Priya Sridhar, Corinne Stanley, Elizabeth Train-Brown, Raymond van Over, R. Bratten Weiss, Gunnar De Winter.

PRINT BOOK – 978-1-989587-14-0
EPUB – 978-1-989587-13-3
KINDLE – 978-1-989587-12-6

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Zolo
• Release date: Dec 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781989587133

Book preview

Introduction

In reading through the work contained in this special climate change edition, I have been struck by the many contexts that literature offers for the examination of humanness. The authors conjure so many potential futures, and present them in ways that challenge us to think not only about our current condition, but how we might explore solutions to the crisis of climate change.

Authors do the painful yet critical work of witnessing what is happening in our world, so that they may speculate on what might be coming. The writers in this volume don’t hesitate in exploring the darkest futures and most challenging scenarios. They hold nothing back in acknowledging the devastation that surrounds us, as they create unique and frightening visions of tomorrow.

There is a common thread connecting the work in this volume—an underlying theme of resilience. Authors explore the adaptability of both the human being and of nature herself, and offer thoughts on how technologies may be developed to support the planet’s survival. These stories and poems bring us possibilities, and give us visions of how, even in the face of the most difficult conditions, intelligence adapts and life finds a way.

The House of Zolo’s Journal of Speculative Literature, Volume 3 opens with pieces that reflect the sorrow and remorse that so many experience in facing the realities of today. As the book progresses, authors search for solutions, spinning new realities for us to consider, imagining the most extreme conditions and how we might be forced to navigate them.

The House of Zolo offers this volume as a reflection of our times, and also as a way to process and work through the collective anxiety brought on by climate change.

Nihls Andersen,

Toronto, 2021

Flappy Mephlapperson Migrating

by Yuan Changming

With the northern night surging from beyond the horizon, you are tired of flying. While the twigs at the bank are all full of thorns, where are you going to perch? Can you keep flying until day breaks?

Like that tracking device

        Tied on your fluffy back is my soul

A chip implanted deep

Into yours. What keeps us

Migrating from country to country

Without a passport, from day to day

Without a visa is our integrated soul

Trying to find its way to our ultimate home

In the outer space beyond our cuckooish reality

As if to climatize

In the outer space beyond our cuckooish reality

Trying to find its way to our ultimate home

Without a visa is our integrated soul

Without a passport, from day to day

Migrating from country to country

Into yours. What keeps us

            A chip implanted deep

                       Tied on your fluffy back is my soul

                     Like that tracking device

The Space Ark

by JD Blackrose

LUCAS WATCHED AS THE tiny tree frog died, the last of its kind on Earth; another species gone, and Lucas wondered what would be next.

In orbit above the Earth, Lucas operated a moon-sized capsule dedicated to documenting the death of each species as it disappeared from the planet. When only one of a kind remained, be it flora, fauna, or insect, Control transmitted that living creature to Lucas to watch, record, and bury. The goal wasn’t to preserve the life, but to witness and preserve their deaths, to create a mausoleum of warning to other species not to do what humans had done to Earth.

Lucas was the Witness.

Nineteen years ago, he’d arrived on this space station. He remembered his first day. Control was with him.

This is it, Lucas! Control had swept his arm in a circle, proud of what they’d built and had clapped Lucas on the back. You know this is a worst-case scenario kind of thing, so you might not be up here long, but you earned this opportunity fair and square. I know your family is proud of you. The border skirmishes will end soon, and we’ll get to fighting this virus as one world. I’m sure of it.

Lucas hadn’t answered, remembering his mom wanting to protect him. She’d caressed his cheek and said, Live. Go to space and stay safe. The doctors will find a cure and then you can come back.

He’d thought of the armies crashing through the forests, into the deep, dark places, and how the virus moved from animal to human. What the war didn’t kill, the virus did. The battles would have to end when there was no one left to fight them.

Control sent beetles at first. Beetle after beetle. How many beetles could there possibly be? Turned out to be hundreds. He’d done his duty, recorded them, dumped them in a hole in the ground, then watched TV shows provided for him and ate dinner with his feet up. He’d chatted with friends, watched old baseball games, and left his messy clothes on the floor with no one to chastise him.

Still, it was getting lonely.

When are you bringing me home, Control? he’d asked.

Control’s voice was upbeat. A few more months, Lucas. I’m sure of it.

Lucas wasn’t sure at all and wished Control would stop saying that, but he kept silent. "Okay, I’m catching up on the classics. Reading Moby Dick now."

A jar of minnows. Goldfish. A tarantula. A brown snake. The last wilting rose bush. Bored out of his mind, Lucas had done his thing, recorded their deaths, dumped them in the ground, and taught himself chess, hoping that any minute this little jaunt would be over.

Then, one last call from his father.

I’m sorry, son. We won’t be here when you get home.

Now, the capsule’s garden was riddled with lumps of soil marking the final resting places of Earth’s once vibrant diversity. Lucas chose a tiny corner, scooped the frog’s carcass from the death chamber and dug a tiny hole, placing the frog in it. He whispered a prayer, although he did not understand why he did it. There was no god in this place.

The enormous mound about one hundred feet to his right, one of the first he had dug, shifted, and his dead elephant friend said, Good morning. Another one?

Tree frog.

They’re coming faster these days. More of them, more often. The elephant rolled in the dirt.

Oh, I don’t know, Humphrey, said Lucas, waving the imaginary elephant off. That’s just your impression.

"No, it’s your impression or I wouldn’t know it. You’ve counted, Lucas. Check your records."

Still. Lucas turned his back on the phantom pachyderm.

An elephant never forgets, said Humphrey.

Lucas didn’t comment because the great, grey beast was right. Lucas kept scrupulous records. The creatures used to come once a month, then once a week, now multiple times a day.

The biologists had sounded the alarm when the nematodes disappeared, but it was the entomologists that rang the final bell. Spurred on by the never-ending global fighting and climate change, mosquitos and ticks proliferated, carrying disease across the planet. The virus mutated fast and health officials couldn’t keep up. In fact, they were some of the first to go, dying while treating patients.

Control called later that day. Hey, Lucas.

Hi. How are things going?

Control didn’t answer, a bad sign. Still talking to that elephant?

This time Lucas didn’t answer.

Lucas, you know he doesn’t exist, right? He’s a hallucination created by your isolation. Control’s voice was gentle.

Yeah, but he’s the only one to talk to.

We’re worried about you.

Lucas shrugged. Who’s we?

Everyone at the Witness Project.

What does it matter? I can’t come back to Earth, can I?

Control only shook his head, his lips pressed together in a tight line.

So, let me have my imaginary friend.

The birds arrived the next week, a blue macaw, then a multi-coloured parrot, then the common robin. A red-tailed hawk arrived at the same time as the last flying squirrel, which was awkward. The squirrel’s death wasn’t recorded, but the hawk lived a few more days.

Lucas?

Yes, Control? Lucas stared at the man on the screen with his scraggly beard and kind blue eyes. He was the only human Lucas had seen in seventeen years.

More mammals are coming.

What’s first? Lucas’s mouth was full, and it came out Whash firsh?

We missed our chance with the wolves, every single one. The Grey Wolf, the Red Wolf, all gone before we could get to them. Even the ones in the zoos. It’s happening so fast.

Food stuck in his throat, and he swallowed hard. We already have the tigers and lions.

All the trophy animals, yes, but the species we tried to reintroduce to the wild? They’re not doing well. Too little to eat, and then they got sick, too.

I’m so sorry to hear that.

Several hours later, Humphrey sniffed through his big trunk and called to Lucas. An animal arrived.

What is it?

A cow?

Lucas hurried to the transporter room and approached the cow, who swivelled her head, eyes soft but confused.

Come on, girl. Let me help you.

She smells funny, Humphrey said. Her udder is swollen.

Lucas stared at his diaphanous friend. You want me to milk a dying cow?

Why leave her any more uncomfortable than she already is?

I don’t know how to milk a cow! What do I look like? A farmer?

The cow mooed and shifted on her feet, and Lucas threw his hands in the air. Fine.

He retrieved a trash can, positioned it under the cow, and tugged at the teats. Nothing happened.

Pull harder, said Humphrey.

I don’t want to hurt her.

I think it’s okay. Squeeze more than pull.

Lucas squeezed and stinky, sour milk poured through his hands into the can, making him wretch, but the cow nuzzled his head.

God, that’s putrid, said Lucas. I guess she’s really sick.

She’s so gentle, said Humphrey.

The cow walked without complaint into the death chamber, kneeled on her front legs, folded her back legs, put her head on the ground. Within an hour she was gone. Lucas removed her body with a small bulldozer and shifted her bulk into a fresh grave.

At least she was more comfortable when she died, Lucas said to Humphrey. That’s something.

Farm animals, mused Humphrey. They’re well cared for. You would think they’d last longer. I wonder what’s next.

The last horse was an Arabian mare who kicked and bit her way toward death, which Lucas applauded.

Spot the Beagle was almost thirteen years old. Lucas placed the fuzzy little guy in the death chamber, turned on the cameras, and waited. It was his first dog, and the last beagle. Not the last canine, just the last of his breed. Man’s best friend got special treatment.

Spot whined and pawed at the glass.

Lucas tilted his head. Not yet?

Spot barked.

Humphrey peered at the dog. Think they sent him early.

Lucas removed Spot from the death chamber and held the old dog to his chest. The dog’s stomach growled.

Hungry?

Lucas called Control.

Yes, Lucas. Control coughed and wiped his mouth.

Could you send some dog food?

The man’s face flashed in surprise. That dog isn’t dead yet?

No, we may have a few days.

Sorry about that. Dog food coming right up. We’ve got bags of it hanging around now.

Lucas found a ball and held it in front of Spot the Beagle’s nose. Want to play? Spot shook his little rump in a definitive yes.

Lucas threw the ball, and the beagle trotted after it, tail wagging, and returned it to Lucas, dropping it in front of his feet.

Good boy, Spot.

That night, Lucas slept with Spot curled behind his legs. In the morning, he rolled over and hugged the dog to his chest. You’re so warm, Spot. I didn’t realize how cold it was up here.

The dog licked Lucas’s nose and showed him his tummy. Lucas lay down next to the dog, nose-to-nose.

Even an old dog has puppy breath, he whispered, a frisson of something unexpected in his stomach.

Lucas received a mouse later that day, which expired so fast he almost didn’t catch the passing.

Whew, Humphrey, that was a real squeaker.

Was that a joke, Lucas? Humphrey sat on his rump and flapped his ears at Lucas. Because elephants are sensitive when it comes to mice.

They’re teensy-weensy compared to you, you big chicken.

I like chickens.

You never met a chicken while you were alive.

No, but chickens are like cattle egrets, right? Those birds picked lice off my back.

Ewww. That’s more than I needed to know.

Lucas documented the passing of multiple species during the next three months. Butterflies, turtles, the last antelope, even the world’s last great white shark, and that was a tricky one, given the shark arrived in a container of salt water. The shark butted the side of the tank and turned belly up.

I guess that means it’s dead, Lucas, said Humphrey.

You go in there and check it.

I’m not the Witness. The elephant shied away from the death chamber, backtracking on his delicate feet.

Do sharks sleep? asked Lucas.

I think so, but I doubt they do it upside down. Besides, don’t they have to keep swimming to breathe?

Maybe we’ll just wait.

The man, the dog, and the imaginary elephant peered at the shark.

Look at all those teeth, Lucas.

Rows and rows of them.

Spot the Beagle barked. The shark didn’t move, so the dog barked again. When the giant beast didn’t twitch, Spot lifted his leg and peed on the tank.

Alrighty then, said Lucas.

The next morning Spot the Beagle didn’t wake up. Lucas petted the dog, gently at first and then harder. Spot?

HUMPHREY!

The elephant was already there, naturally since he was wherever Lucas was. He touched Spot the Beagle with his trunk. I’m sorry, Lucas.

Tears streamed down Lucas’s face. I missed Spot’s passing, Humphrey. The only one that mattered, and I missed it.

I saw it, Lucas. I watched.

Lucas looked up at the elephant with his tear-stained face. And an elephant never forgets, right?

That’s right, Lucas. I stood Witness when you could not.

The husky lasted three months. Determined not to miss this dog’s death, Lucas created a bed with a blanket and pillow in the death chamber and kept the equipment running the whole time. He lay with the dog, listening to him breathe, staring up at the ceiling.

The next dog arrived, worn, skinny with illness and age, a German shepherd at the end of her time. Control said she was the last of her kind, not just the breed. The last canine. Lucas cradled her, and she convulsed in his arms. He couldn’t take it.

She’s in pain, Humphrey.

Yes, Lucas, but there is nothing you can do about that.

Lucas removed a chain from his neck that held one key. He used the key to unlock a cabinet he’d never once opened. Humphrey’s eyes grew wide, his long eyelashes blinking fast.

But that’s for you, when the time comes, Lucas. You can’t.

I have more than enough.

Lucas placed the German shepherd in the death chamber, taking care not to cause the animal more discomfort. The dog licked Lucas’s hand and closed her eyes, ready. Lucas injected her with the serum and sat with her, petting her head as the recording devices documented the end of the species.

Control sent more animals, more insects, more fish, and when the animals suffered, Lucas used more of his serum. Humphrey begged him not to.

What’s the point of living, Humphrey, in the midst of all this? was all Lucas would say. Am I more deserving of a swift death than they are?

The message arrived at five in the morning, a video from the planet that reached Lucas in his orbiting bubble, where he was playing cards with Humphrey to keep his mind off things.

Lucas. The man’s raspy voice and hacking cough told Lucas all he needed to know. I’m the last human standing, and I’ll be dead by sundown, Control said. There are a few species left but there’s no one here to send them to you, so your mission can’t be completed. I’m sorry.

Lucas pressed his hand to the monitor, and Control returned the gesture, leaving bloody fingerprints on the screen.

Control continued. I won’t transmit my body because truly, I’m not the last human. You are.

But who will witness your passing, Control? After all you have done?

Control shrugged and shook his head.

Lucas made up his mind. I will, Control. Take the camera with you.

Control lay down on a thin mattress with an even thinner blanket and closed his eyes, his breathing shallow.

Thanks, Lucas. I’m sorry I’m leaving.

Lucas wanted to scream, but he held still and fulfilled his obligation, teeth clenched, hands gripped into fists at his sides. Afterward, he curled in a ball and writhed, keening a primordial wail of distress into the nothingness of the capsule, in the nothingness of the universe.

When he’d cried all his tears and shouted every curse word he knew, Lucas walked alone through his graveyard, the last human alive. He subsisted for a while, but supplies ran low and his rations dried up.

The animals rose from their graves to taunt him. Claws raked his stomach as the animals he’d watched die showed him true hunger. Their beaks pecked at his dry eyes and their scales scraped his throat as he hallucinated glasses of water within his reach, all because he’d been kind to some, but he’d mostly been indifferent, and they hadn’t wanted to die.

They laughed at his outstretched hand, mocked his swollen tongue, and snapped at his fingertips.

He dwindled until he was almost as unreal as they were.

When it was time, he crawled to the death chamber, made sure the equipment worked, and recorded his own demise, his cloudy eyes staring at a camera he couldn’t see.

He unwrapped a lemon drop he’d saved for this moment, but without saliva he couldn’t suck it and had to wait for it to melt. Its sweetness was almost too much but the burst of sugar gave him the strength he needed, and, raw and desiccated, he gave his last Will and Testament.

This capsule represents all that Earth once contained, minus a few species that we missed, or hopefully, those that survived humankind. If you find me and my records, learn from our tale.

My name is Lucas, and I am the last Witness.

Lucas lay there, fading a breath at a time, staring unseeing into the camera lens, and locked eye-to-eye with someone he’d never meet.

Humphrey observed Lucas’s last breath, needing no recording, and faded into his burial mound.

Below, anaerobic bacteria thrived in the carbon dioxide rich environment, and ferns grew to the size of houses, darker and differently shaped than before, but living plant life all the same. It was quiet on Earth, quiet in the graveyard above, and quiet in space. The ark didn’t grow or breathe or move. It simply existed, waiting for someone to find it and bear witness.

Gulls Dreaming

by Virginia Boudreau

When the levees break,

it’s another oil slick. One

endless, putrid exhale.

We are the uneasy progeny

of yesterday’s gulls,

shellacked and tarred,

beaks welded, huddled

against the next spew.

Archived truths toss on

rogue waves devouring

a corroded shoreline,

rise, fall, drown in wells

of an indefinable yearning

for a time when

water wasn’t viscous and

feathers could still lift

and hover near heaven,

as they were meant to do.

The Flames

by Steve Denehan

I don’t know why I did it

an impulse I suppose

I didn’t even have much part in it

I just watched my hand

move away from me

towards the hearth

between my thumb and forefinger

was a fiver

crisp and new

ready to be spent

on groceries or clothes

or a set of sewer rods

to unblock the septic tank

I let it go

watched it fall

to rest on the turf

the fire waited for a half second

before taking it

hungrily

and then it was gone

I waited to feel something

a catharsis of some sort

anger at myself

at the waste

anything

but