#solarpunkstoryexchange

[solarpunkwitchcraft]

max and the train

My story for @solarpunkstoryexchange hope you enjoy :)

Prompt: A woman explores the different solarpunk cities. What does she see?

The train circled the continents, stretching over oceans and plunging deep into the land. It was powered by the solar panels that graced the top and each of the colored windows, but no one knew exactly how it worked. No one knew where it had come from either. Most assumed it had just grown out of the ground, like the weeds that covered its walls.

When Max was eighteen and restless, she decided to ride the train to its end, trading her work for food and lodging. Her home city was beautiful but sleepy, all abandoned factories turned into interior gardens and trees that burst out from the cement sidewalks. She kissed her aunts and uncles good-bye and said a prayer at the entrance to the train, a small saint tucked into her coat pocket.

The first city she went to was the scavengers’ city. On the far end of the Wastelands, it was a teetering place, with long cotton tents between buildings made of multicolored bricks and melted plastic. Everything was color and nothing was shaped like anything else. Lining the streets were carts where scavengers bartered what they had found, out there in the Wastes. Plants grew out of metal cans traced with beautiful gold paint, clothes were patched and embroidered from a thousand different colors and materials, stained glass images of gods and saints and old stories that were made from cracked window frames and bits of old bottles. Max was looking at a clockwork bird made from various different colors of rusted metal when the small woman who manned the table leaned over.

“How do you find these things?” Max asked to make conversation.

“You have to listen to the objects,” the woman said. “Here their stories, hear what they want to become.”

Max exchanged a solar necklace from her hometown for the bird, which she placed on the brim of her hat.

Next, she travelled to the lush farmlands that had carved their ways out of old mines. There houses were perched underground or on the top of mossy mountains, connected with rope bridges. Max worked there for several weeks, feeling the soft soil underneath her fingers. Late at night, the members of the town would play folk songs so old no one knew the words any more and everyone danced, Max included. She fell in love with a farmer girl and they exchanged raspberry-scented letters before Max got back onto her train.

Farther south was the Ziggurat, a city on an island, surrounded by floating farm land. Flowers stretched up to the ever-present sun, their petals made of solar panels. Trolleys took Max around the adobe city, where she stayed in a local church and learned how to repair the great solar flowers. By the end of her time there, she was freckled-covered and understood how to navigate the web of trolleys. 

At night, the city transformed, no longer lit by the sun. Instead, lamps of algae cast the street with a ghastly glow and people appeared transformed, their make up glowing in the moonlight. At night, the actors appeared, and the dancers, and the jugglers and they performed to midnight crowds, who clapped so long their hands hurt. The first few days, Max went out every night, in awe of the lights and the performers and the transformed city, but the locals told her to pace herself, to not become overly full of the Ziggurat’s wonders.

Another city lay on a farther south, on its own island, but the air there was thick with smoke, so much so that Max was given a mask on arrival. There were masks of every shape and design, all created by skilled artisans who had been creating masks for centuries. Some were in the shapes of smiling suns, other looked like the skulls of humans or bears or deer, some were comprised of multicolored glittering glass. All had glass compartments at the mouth and nose that were full of plants. These filtered the air so it was breathable. Max chose a mask that looked as if it had been carved of oak, leaves spilling out the top like a crown.

“Why,” she asked an artisan. “Do you stay here if the very air is poisoned?”

The artisan shrugged, held out too manicured hands. “It’s home,” he said. “You don’t leave home.”

And yet Max was doing exactly that, going from the city of poisoned air to a city that was only clockwork and which held all the books in the world, to a city that was criss-crossed with rivers and glittering with leaf-patterned steeples made of solar glass, to a city deep underwater, full of the aquatic descendants of the drowned, who would not let Max see beyond the city walls. She saw it all, dissolved herbs and tomatoes and seaweed on her tongue, breathed in these places and then left, pockets full of treasures, heart full of contentment and a longing so sharp it drowned out all the other flavors. 

The last city she visited was a city that moved across the land like the train did, one that was comprised of old school buses and covered wagons and boats that ran on land. There, Max learned how to fix a biofuel engine and speak a tongue that was a mix of all others and when they asked her if she had a wanderer’s heart like they did, she stared at the train tracks above her and felt the rumble of the engine in her ribs.

[solarpunkstoryexchange]

2019 Solarpunk Story Exchange

This is an exchange of short original fiction centered around a solarpunk theme. 

Last year’s exchange was wonderful and I’m excited to see what you all create this year! Participants will contribute 4-6 solarpunky story prompts, and receive 4-6 prompts from somebody else to inspire a story. You can choose to fill only one prompt, combine several, or even fill all you receive. Stories will be posted April 22nd (Earth Day!). New this year, there is no minimum word count! Even a few hundred words of story is still more solarpunk for us all to enjoy :D 

Rules: [xxx]

Sign-up (Deadline March 17th): [xxx]

Let’s write stories of hope and revolution!

[solarpunkandstainedglass]

Old Sage and the Unbroken Chain

Solarpunk Story Exchange 2019! @solarpunkstoryexchange

Prompts: Older people in Solarpunk, Student Strikes, Solarpunk Travel

Happy Earth Day! This is year two of this excellent writing event and I’ve enjoyed it so much! can’t wait to read the other stories!

The sky was empty above and echoed with the sounds of the plains. Across the horizon the dark shapes of their destination were laid out like seedlings in the dust. Old Sage felt the wind against her face and the warmth of the sun on her back. She looked at her people, wild eyed with the flight, and counted them in her head. All present and correct. She gave the signal and they moved off the hill, their crafts sweeping the dry grass as they once again built up speed.

They had been traveling now for twelve weeks, across the drylands that separated the coastal towns of the East and the wetlands to the West. The Oasis was the biggest settlement there, and the only one that remained year round. It had become a trading centre and the most popular stop for travelers trying to cross the dry grasses. It was a beautiful sight - the grass surrounding it was lush and green, with covered trellises dripping in vines connecting each of the low buildings. The place was built over a fresh spring, the water carefully cultivated in underground springs that kept their surrounding crops nourished. But more than that, the Oasis had developed the springs further out into the grasses, so that in a beautiful circle around it the wildlife could thrive as it had once done, thanks to the man made rivers and pools that were all fed by the deep spring at the centre. From above it looked like a bright green circle, surrounded by the sea of dry yellow grass for miles.

That morning though, as the weary group reached the green border, an unexpected sight greeted them. In a chain around the Oasis, right where the yellow grass met the green, was a long line of people, arms outstretched to each other, staring defiantly back into the land beyond. As the travelers got closer they could hear the sound of a chant being shouted by the group.

Old Sage leaped off her glider 50 meters from the lines and motioned for her people to follow. Pulling the now gently hovering crafts behind them on their tethers they slowly approached, waving a greeting and stopping again 10 meters away. Close up she saw with a faint shock that the people in the human chain were young - many couldn’t have been much past their teens and some looked even younger. Tired and wary eyes locked onto the travelers as they stopped their approach. From across the space Old Sage saw signs sticking out of the ground

Protect Our Land!

Our Future Matters

We Won’t Let You Make The Same Mistakes Again

Never Again

She felt her old bones ache and looked longingly at the buildings beyond, but some things went even deeper than bones. She anchored her crafts and lowered her body onto the grass next to it. Around her, her people followed her lead. She nodded to the teenagers and pulled out a flask of water. She might be tired and ready for a proper bed but she wasn’t about to cross a picket line.

The sun began to set and a pair of protesters came over to the group. The chain closed over the gap they left, keeping the line strong. Old Sage waved the pair over and greeted them.

“How long have you been out here?”

The older of the two, a short girl with her hair tightly braided in coils against her head, shrugged and replied.

“About three days now. I think they’re beginning to take it seriously, finally. You arriving will help, if you’re planning on staying out here.”

“Of course. We’ve got food and water to last a while, and if it takes longer we’ll move on without trade.”

The girl nodded, relief clear on her features. The teenagers headed back to the chain, where lanterns were being lit and placed on tall poles, illuminating the chain of protesters. Old Sage began to organise her people into a full camp, raising tents and creating spaces for cooking fires. Out here on the dry grasses you had to be careful with fire. One stray spark could cause devastation.

The next morning she was awoken by shouting. Looking out of her tent, she saw a group of men waving frantically at her camp from behind the line. She stood slowly, her muscles complaining as she stretched and climbed outside. She moved until she could see them clearly, older than the protesters, with anger and fear on their faces. In front of them the chain looked tense. She stood firm on her side and waited. The men gestured for her to come forward but she looked pointedly at the chain and stayed where she was. One of the men leaned forward and shouted over to her, asking her if she had been threatened, if she had come with stuff to trade. She recognised him from previous visits, a normally quiet man. His face was red that morning, the look of someone unexpectedly not getting what they want.

She turned and went back to her camp, where the rest of her gang were already putting together food for breakfast. She could hear the man shouting as she sat and accepted a bowl of food, and smiled as the man continued to shout. Maybe they wouldn’t need to wait too long after all.

The day stretched out and on the air she could hear a thrumming - something was coming in the distance. The protesters could feel it too, and looked afraid. Inside the ring the older people looked smug and Old Sage felt a low rage in her stomach. The protest hadn’t been there a week yet and already the leaders of the Oasis were escalating. From the far side she saw a mass of people on the horizon and realised that if they had come from the wetlands they must have started their journey days ago - and that meant that they had been called as soon as the protests had started. She glowered at the gloating men and stood. She called her gang to her and in a low voice laid out her new plan. Agreement was unanimous. They moved their camp and joined the chain.

The night was pierced with red light and panic. Old Sage could picture what had happened even as the jumbled news came to the chain. One of the enforcers had been careless - perhaps a poorly made fire, or a dropped match - afterall, in the wetlands they would not think of such things. Now a fire was growing and heading towards them. There was hardly any time to react. The gang raced around the chain, burning a ring of dead grass, suffocating the flames as soon as they had done their job. They reassured the chain and finally completed the circle, dry-eyed and coughing. The smoke in the distance was growing.

Soon the animals of the grasses came, more than could be believed. The dead plains weren’t really so dead - the wildlife adapted and hung on, in smaller and more hidden places. But that night they ran to the one place they could be safe - the Oasis. First came deer and wild cats and dogs, running past the burnt circle and into the chain where they stopped away from the buildings, drinking water from the pools and streams in desperate gulps, each paying no mind to each other or the protesters. Then came the smaller creatures - rodents, insects, birds - streaming in between the legs of the teenagers and finding places to rest in the lush green grass beyond. The chain was now a mass of living things resting under the night sky. Beyond it all, the wildfire grew.

The enforcers came last, an army of armed people now afraid and tired and ashamed of what they had done. They did not attempt to break the chain that night but accepted water and joined Old Sage’s people in the camp outside the chain, safely within the burnt circle.

The fire was ash by mid morning. The animals stayed where they were and soon other people in the Oasis, scientists and researchers, were out in the grass making notes and finding animals they had thought were long dead. The leaders waited beyond them for their army to finally break the protesters. But the animals covered the grasses and to march on the Oasis would be to march on them. The scientists joined the chain and the people of the Wetlands were uncertain.

The Oasis waited with held breath on its leaders. Anger was rising at the damage they had already caused. As the sun set, they relented.

The stars came out above and Old Sage could finally put her feet in the lush grass of the Oasis. A grasshopper sat on her sleeve and she smiled. Tomorrow her gang would go with the wetland people together and complete their journey. Tonight they would trade their wares and celebrate. The grasses would grow again and the Oasis would be a more equal place.

She felt the wind in her hair and its coolness on her skin. For now, all was well.

[tea---leaves]

POWER!

For the @solarpunkstoryexchange! Happy Earth Day!

His mother is the local historian, which according to the majority of Godric Village, is the most important job there is.

“We forget what the world was like if there’s no one around to remind us,” explained Mr. Derrik as he dropped off the fruit from his farm. Xavier smiled politely, handing him the item his mother told him to give Mr. Derrik once he arrived. It was a strange item— a flat, little box holding a flat circle with a hole in the middle. ‘Like a donut had been flattened,’ said Levi. The box had a photo of a boy on it with his face painted with stars and stripes. Mr. Derrik smiled when he saw it. “Your mom does a very good job at reminding us.”

“Thank you for the fruit, Mr. Derrik,” said Xavier. The man tipped his hat and went back to his cart. He closed the door.

He’d never understood why the adults made a big deal about the past. The past is all that it said it was: everything but the future. Of course, his mother would disagree with him.

“Mom! Mr. Derrik brought us fruit!”

“Just bring it to me, dear!”

He groaned again, louder this time. “Coming!” He ignored the throbbing pain in his knee as hobbled his way to the greenhouse. Passing by various historical artifacts like the DVDs decorating the wall, the non-functioning record player in the corner, and various pieces of flat boxed artwork like the one he gave Mr. Derrik, he made note of the missing punk album on the wall.

Punk music, his mother said, is a call for revolution, change. Its purpose was to inspire. It was a miracle that she was willing to trade a record album for some fruit. Then again, there’s apparently a difference between fruit and Mr. Derrick’s fruit.

“Here.” Xavier dodged the pile of dirt on the cobble floor, setting down the basket next to the sunflowers. The plants were tilted upwards this morning. He followed its’ line of sight, squinting up the bright blue sky. The glass of the greenhouse tinted the colour, making everything look turquoise.

“Don’t stare at the sun, love, you’ll go blind.”

He looked away. “Yeah, sorry.” His mom popped up from behind the sunflowers, dirt smudged on her tanned cheek and her black hair in a messy ponytail. The teen slid the basket forward. She took it with care.

“He couldn’t stay for dinner?” She asked.

“Guess not.”

She dug through the fruit, pulling out a notecard wrapped in twine. Xavier raised a brow, peeking over her shoulder.

Camilla,

They’re not quite flowers, but I’m working on it.

Let’s talk again soon.

— Derrik

Xavier’s brows rose even higher. “I think Mr. Derrik has a crush on you,” he said.

She scoffed, which came out more as a nervous ‘pshaw.’ “Enough about me.” She gestured to his knee. “How’s your leg? Is it hurting again?”

“It’s fine.”

“Xavier, please,” she frowned. “No lying to me. If it’s hurting again we need to get it checked. You’re the—”

“—the future,” he finished, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

She continued, grabbing his shoulders and squeezing. “Which is why you need to be honest with me.” She brushed a curl away from his face. “You’re gonna—”

“—change the world one day?” His lips quirk upwards as his mom chuckled lightly. He shook his head. “My knee hurts a little bit when I walk but other than that, I don’t even notice. Can I go to Levi’s house now?”

“You can go to Levi’s house but make sure her dad checks on your leg, okay?”

A bright smile graced his face. He kissed her check. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll be home before dark.”

Her smile matched his. “Better be.”

Levi lived on the other side of the village, which is a thirty minute walk from his house. Clouds swarmed the sky, darkening the air around as if it were a foggy day. It’s making the fireflies glow a little earlier than usual.

Levi’s dad built little biomes for fireflies. They were stationed all over the village, giving light whenever it’s dark. It’s not always reliable, he had explained once, but he’s working on it. Dr. Lucien Khan was best known as Godric’s local mad scientist. The villagers used the title lovingly, as he was a zany man with a big heart and bigger ideas. He’s always pushing for innovations and its definitely rubbed off on his daughter, Levi.

Xavier loved going to their home.

“Xavier,” Levi grinned, crossing her thumb and index finger and pretending to paint her other hand. They decided his sign language name when they were four, when he just started taking an interest in painting. “Took you long enough.” She pulled him into her room, shutting the door behind her. “I found something I gotta show you.”

The girl gestured to the big table beside her bed— something that usually isn’t there. The surface was taken up by small, wooden rectangular prisms. Xavier squinted. The objects were grouped up, separated by pathways. Little figurines, not even a quarter of the size of the wooden prisms, look like they’re walking around, trying to get somewhere.

“Where did you get this?” He signed, picking up one of the buildings. It wasn’t designed in a way of an inspired artist, but as an architect obsessed. Individual lines were carved into each of its walls along with little windows, every single prism having its own unique structure. Furrowing his brows, he set it back down with its tribe. He knew what this was supposed to be, seeing it from his mother’s written books and drawings. “Is this supposed to be a city?”

Levi gestured to the tallest building. It was skinnier than the others and oddly shaped. The body of it was like a stem, curving thinner and thinner as it reached the top. Then all of a sudden, a thick oval plopped on top. And then on top of that, something similar to a lance weapon. Odd, he thought, but it definitely called for curiosity.

“This is a skyscraper.” She tapped the top of it. “My dad says that there were skyscrapers that reached the clouds. And that this whole place—” Levi gestured to the whole of it. “— Was powered by electricity. The electricity came from the sun, or the water, or oil. It was the weirdest thing. I want you to help me paint it.”

He hummed. “I don’t see why anyone would want to live that high up.”

“No one was living there,” signed Levi, shrugging. “People would pay just to go that high up and look down. It made them feel big.”

She shrugged again. He knocked once on his forehead, sign language for: “Stupid.”

Levi laughed, shoving at his shoulder. She signed back slowly, her movements deliberate: “Inspiring.”

That was two days ago.

His leg is throbbing so bad. It’s sending hot flashes throughout his entire body, making him want to stumble down and not get back up. Phantom pains were very common, Dr. Khan had explained, but the severity of it differs from person-to-person. He guessed the amount of walking isn’t helping the situation.

His mom had gone on a trip to some place he wasn’t allowed to know and she came back with something he’d only ever seen in her pictures: a tractor.

It was so much bigger than he thought it would be. The whole village got so excited, especially the adults because I haven’t seen a tractor in decades. And even more the children, because I’ve never seen a vehicle before!

To celebrate, his mom told the kids about how there used to be little events where kids would ride around the tractor, touring the forest. Levi’s dad insisted that she go so then she insisted that Xavier went with her. And Xavier was too much of a passive person to say no.

And then Levi wanted to wander away a little when the tractor stopped for a break. So then they wandered. And he wandered too far.

And now he’s knee-deep in a city— a real, actual, ancient, ghostly city.

His spine tingles uncomfortably every time his feet beat against pavement instead of crunch under dirt paths. And the buildings are tall. Just so, so ridiculously tall that he can’t even see the top of some of them. What could they possibly need all that room for?

It’s a think his mother talked about often: greed. The need for money, the need for power, the need for more more more more more! They wanted and wanted until the crops died, the land flooded, the bugs spread disease faster than the people could fix. Something similar to lightning shoots through his prosthetic leg, making him wince. The disease was what got most people.

He stops in his tracks, his head tilting upwards— a skyscraper towers over him.

“Damn,” he mutters. “That is tall.”

Now he can see why people would pay to be on top of that.

So he walks. And keeps walking until he’s inside the skyscraper, looking down at the city.

The buildings look so small from up here, he could only imagine what the city-people would’ve looked like.

This doesn’t make him feel big at all, it only makes him feel smaller. His chest expands; he takes a deep breath. People used to live here. They would travel over roads through their vehicles and they would do different things in different buildings and they would pay some nameless somebody to stand where he’s standing and look down because it made them feel big.

He takes a step back and goes back down the stairs.

He finds a gift shop on his way down. Its isles are filled with books and toys and music and keychains. Xavier heads towards the keychains first but he doesn’t find a keychain that has the name ‘Xavier’ imprinted. Then he heads for radio. He turns it over and frowns. Shouldn’t there be a wire attached? He hits different buttons at a time, hitting the square carved into the design. It pops open, revealing a little disk. Blinking, he closes it again.

Drums start to play, holding an upbeat, soulful rhythm in time of his heartbeat. A man, his voice husky and sweet, starts to sing. There’s a funky tone to the song, he can feel his head nod along despite that. A woman’s voice joins him, singing in a way that challenges and inspires.

And I could cry power

Power has been cried by those stronger than me

Straight into the face that tells you to

Rattle your chains (ha!) if you love being free

He spots the little box that’s supposed to hold the DVD and turns it over. Nina Cried Power, it read, by Hozier. It costs twenty-five dollars. Typical.

The thought of home pops up into his head. He should be going home but he’d been so distracted. Putting the DVD back on the shelf because he’s never seen nor held twenty-five dollars in his life, he begins the understand the never-ending feeling of ‘want.’ The emotion, in and of itself, is extremely entertaining when indulged, but he misses his mom and the crunching sound his feet makes when he walks on dirt roads.

It takes a little while and little bit of struggle but he finds his way home, picking up stuff on his way back because want isn’t always a bad thing.

The first thing he does when he gets to his room is grab his paint. Then he goes to Mr. Derrik’s cabin, where he was allowed to use its walls as his canvas. Holdin one of his mother’s history books in his hands, he starts painting.

“Xavier!”

“Over here!” He yells, taking a step back from his art. He’s whirled around, suddenly facing the worried face of his mother. She grabs the sides of his face, brushing her thumb over his cheeks in haste.

“Xavier,” she gasps, heaving and tear-stained. “The whole village was out looking for you! Do you know how worried I was?”

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, Mom.”

She sniffs, brushing his cheeks instead of her own. “So worried,” she says. “I was so worried.” They spend a moment just looking at each other, both hesitating. She turns her head, catching sight of his newest painting.

“You keep saying you want me to change the world,” Xavier starts, swallowing down the cotton in his throat, “but I don’t think you want me to change it. I think you just want me to put it back to the way that it was. And the world... it wasn’t that bad? Like, I can see why you miss it so much, but a lot of mistakes were made. And— and putting things back to the way things were isn’t going to fix anything.”

He hands her a piece of glassy, smooth material that’s cold to the touch. He’d read about it before. A solar panel, they called it. “If you really want me to change something,” he says, “then I want to do it by my terms.”

Her head is still turned towards his painting, a smile soft on her face. “Alright then,” she says, “you are the future, after all.”

Xavier wanted to experiment with the black and white colour palette, painting Nina Simone— the musician and civil rights activist of the 60s. She was known as the high priestess of soul, a strong black woman of her time and beyond. In the painting, she’s looking upwards, hand in the air. There’s a speech bubble next to her, a single word written in all caps: “POWER!”

[hoothootmotherf-ckers]

A Subtle Kind of Magic

My second story for the @solarpunkstoryexchange story exchange, for the prompt “A witch grows a garden and curses the people who destroy it - but blesses those who helps her regrow it to its glory.”

I could start this story off the normal way. “Once upon a time, somewhere far away but sort of like here….” But that’s not true. Then again, it’s not as compelling to say “In 2015, in San Francisco….” But anyway. In a city by the ocean, where fog flows like water, there lived a witch.

Keep reading

[spacebrick3]

Solarpunk Story Exchange

Title: Sparks

Word Count: 6245

Summary: Two engineers are called to deal with a malfunction in one of the wind turbines that power their city. They quickly find, though, that it’s not malfunction at all but deliberate sabotage, and are drawn into the plot of a group who wishes to end their entire way of life.

Alexis Cassini stood on top of the massive windmill, frowning down at the stationary blades beneath her. The wind whipped past her, ruffling her short black hair, but the gigantic arms remained still. She sighed and climbed down to the small platform and the secondary access panel, pulling on her welding mask as she did so.

When she tried to pull it open, she found the problem immediately. The box had been welded shut. She shook her head. This type of thing had been getting more common, especially since the demonstration last year by the fossil-fuel protestors. She couldn’t understand it. How could anybody think that the slogan “Oil is thicker than blood” signified something good and not something incredibly ominous?

A blue flame hissed out of her torch, biting into the hardened metal around the door. Sparks flew, and she relaxed slightly – it would take a while for the torch to break through the door, especially in the howling winds. Her comm device hissed with static, and she scowled. They hadn’t been working the entire time she’d been out here, and she couldn’t figure out why. Alexis made a mental note to report it when she got back.

Sam must have been trying to talk to her again. She shut off her torch and leaned over the railing behind her, raising her welding mask slightly. “Comms still aren’t working!” she shouted down. “I should be down soon, though – talk to me then!”

“…do that!” Sam shouted back through the wind. “Just…down soon!” Alexis smiled slightly, and turned back to her work. Sam tended to get nervous during excursions like these, despite the fact that nothing had ever happened except Alexis stumbling once on the blades of a windmill like this one. She thought Sam might have had a heart attack then. It was endearing, though, knowing that she cared about her that much.

Alexis turned back to the box, and was able to open it in the span of just a few minutes. The door would need repairs later, but that wasn’t a job for the emergency engineers. Their job was just to ensure that the thousands of homes supplied by the wind farm got the power they needed.  If a slightly melted door was the price to pay for that, then so be it.

The sabotage was obvious once the door was open – the cables that connected the motor to the computer had all been cut, and a few had even been ripped out. She swore quietly at the absolute idiocy of the cult – did they think cutting off power to thousands of homes was going to improve their image? – and pulled a few wires from her pocket, swapping out the welding torch for a soldering iron.

She replaced the wires, the smell of solder heavy despite the wind, and was satisfied to see the lights come back on inside the access panel. She closed it as best she could and moved to the other side of the platform, where a computer screen displayed the question: Would you like to restart this Titan-class wind turbine? If yes, press 1. If not, press 2. If you require support, press 3.She grinned and punched 1 on the small keypad, hearing the whirring sound as the massive motor in the top of the turbine spooled up.

She took off her welding mask and stashed it with the rest of her tools, then glanced down over the platform railing. Sam was still standing there, her bright red hair standing out against the grey landscape behind her. She looked back up at Alexis. “Are you...down now?!” she shouted.

Alexis smiled, then started to climb down the ladder. She slid down the last few rungs, then hopped off, crossing over to Sam. “How’s it going? Anything interesting happen?” she asked jokingly.

Sam frowned, looking even more worried than usual. “I don’t know. I found this,” she said, holding up a small circular badge. It was a bright scarlet red, with a pitch-black, dripping O emblazoned on it. “It’s the oil people, right?”

“Yep,” she said, nodding. “Think they were the ones who did this. At least, the box up above was welded shut – the wind wouldn’t have done this.”

Sam’s face went ashen. “Crap,” she muttered, “crap crap crap crap crap.We have to tell somebody – if they’re trying to shut down the turbines-“ she stammered.

“Hey,” Alexis said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “It’s fine. We can tell the security people or whatever when we get back. Don’t stress about it. Fringe groups gonna fringe group, am I right?”

She smiled slightly. “Yeah, I suppose. We should probably get back soon, though, so we can tell them. Don’t want them breaking another turbine.” She crossed over to where the cable was hooked, checking it again to see if the tension had changed. She then checked it again, just in case, making Alexis smile.

Sam always climbed down first. It had become their little ritual – Alexis guessed that it was just her being overprotective of Alexis again, but hey. If it made her feel better, then she would absolutely let her go down first. Sam clipped the cable to her harness and started to descend, swaying slightly in the wind.

It would be a few moments before she reached the ground and Alexis could climb down, so she relaxed a little, staring out at the grey landscape. It had once been a beautiful countryside, so the history books said, green and purple and blue. There had been windmills too, but they had been made of only wood and canvas, and could only power one farm, if that. But the basic human resilience was still there. Before, they had built massive walls to keep the sea from their land. Now they built domes to keep the pollution and toxins out, but it was the same spirit. The same sentiment.

A movement below caught her eye, and she looked down. Sam was almost at the ground, but that wasn’t what she had noticed. There was movement in the rocks just around their hovercar. At first, she thought it might just be shifting shadows as the clouds overhead moved, but then she saw flashes of red among the grey. She frowned, reaching down for a pair of binoculars from her toolbox. She raised them to her eyes, and felt an icy lump of fear form in her stomach.

It was the cultists.

She looked again, hoping she was mistaken, but the scarlet and black robes were unmistakable. They had been plastered over every news station the year before, after the unmitigated disaster that was last year’s protest, and she hoped that she’d never see them again. But here they were. Surrounding the windmill. Surrounding Sam.

She dashed to where the cable was hanging off the platform. “SAM!” she shouted in desperation, watching helplessly as she reached the ground and started to unclip her harness. “SAM! GET BACK UP HERE NOW!”

But she didn’t notice. She walked away from the cable and over to the hovercar, opening the trunk and starting to stash their equipment in there. Alexis tried the comm again, but the same burst of static greeted her ears. “SAM!” she shouted again, but the wind snatched away her words before they could reach the ground.

Alexis could only watch as the cultists emerged into the slight clearing around the car and Sam finally saw them, much too late. She started to run, but they had surrounded her, and Alexis watched as she tried in vain to fight them off, only to be subdued by a mass of cultists. From the platform, all she could hear was the wind and the slow groaning of the windmill, but she could almost imagine Sam’s shouts as she was dragged away.

One of the cultists, who seemed to be the leader, walked over to the bottom of the cable and pulled out a megaphone. “You! Up there!” they shouted. “Come down! We have your friend!”

Alexis, eyes burning, didn’t bother to give him a response. She walked over to where the cable was hooked and, staring down at the cultist, slowly unhooked it and watched it fall to the ground. They swore and jumped out of the way of the falling rope, dropping the megaphone in the process.

“So that’s how it’s going to be, huh?!” they shouted back. “Abandoning your friend?! And you say we’re the heartless ones!” They laughed harshly, then turned back to the other cultists. She could see them giving orders, and the ones carrying Sam started to walk away, disappearing back into the jumbled rocks. She stared after them, trapped up on the platform. There was nothing she could do.

The cultist with the megaphone was still standing there. “So what happens now?!” they shouted up at her. “You’re stuck up there! What are you going to do?” Alexis, very slowly and calmly, went over to her toolbox, pulled out a wrench, and threw it at them. It fell completely short, of course, but it was calming, if only a little.

They laughed again. “That all you got?”

Alexis swore at them, knowing they couldn’t hear her, then leaned against the turbine. Tears prickled at her eyes. They had taken Sam. The completely insane,oil-over-blood cultists had taken beautiful, wonderful, nervous Sam, and there was nothing she could do about it, trapped on the windmill.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam awoke in a dark room, and a flood of panic washed through her. Where was she? What happened to her? Most importantly, where was Alexis? She struggled, but found that her arms and legs were bound tightly, attached by a short length of rope to a rusty iron pole huddling in the corner of the room. She glanced around frantically, trying to see if there was anyone else in the room with her – had they captured Alexis too? – but what she could make out appeared deserted.

Her breaths came in short, fast, gasps, and she realized that she was starting to hyperventilate. Alright. Panicking wouldn’t help her get out. She needed to look around, figure out what exactly was going on, and then think of a way to get out. The cultists – the Brotherhood, she believed they were called – had attacked the wind turbine and kidnapped her. Alexis had still been up on the platform, and Sam hoped that she had had the presence of mind to stay up there where it was safe. 

Now the real question: what did the cultists want? And more specifically, what did they want with her? She knew what their final goal was, everybody did: to see the world return to the age of fossil fuels and pollution, where the wealthy oil barons could control vast swathes of land and all but dictate the economy. It seemed inane and idiotic – did they think that they would become the new oil barons? – but she supposed that was the hallmark of crazy cults; they didn’t have to make sense.

But why had they gone out of their way to attack the turbines and to capture her? As far as she was aware, neither her nor Alexis were major players in the leadership or engineering of the Dome. And the Dome always came first. The head of the Security Council – Florin, a friend of hers – would be angry, but he wouldn’t perform a ransom or hostage situation for them. So why had the cultists attacked a major Dome power station, risking exposing their group to fierce retribution, just to get her or Alexis?

Maybe it was a mix-up. Maybe the cultists had hoped to capture one of the other engineers, but Sam didn’t think any of them would be particularly valuable. The problem was, she simply didn’t have enough information about what the cultists were doing now to have any clue as to why they would want an engineer. They had practically disappeared after being chased out of the Dome last year – who knew what they were doing now?

The door on the opposite side of the room burst open, and Sam backed into the corner, irrationally hoping that the shadows there could let her hide. They wouldn’t, of course, but that wasn’t really the point. A burly, hooded cultist peered in, scanned the room, and found her. “Hey,” they said, voice low and raspy. “Boss wants you.”

They stared at each other for a moment, neither of them speaking. The cultist seemed to be expecting her to say something. “I-“ she started, but then faltered. “I, um, can’t…really…go anywhere right now…because I’m…kind of…tied here,” she finally managed, tilting her head towards where the ropes were knotted to indicate what she was talking about. 

“That is true,” the cultist said. “Nobody’s expecting you to go anywhere.”

“But…you said…”

“Was just letting you know. The boss is coming here. Warning you, just in case.”

“In case of what?” she asked in spite of herself. Truth be told, she wanted to do nothing more than curl up into a ball and hope that it all went away. But she also wanted to find out more about what was going on here, and so she asked the question in spite of her better instincts.

“Well, you know-“ the burly figure started, then stopped, glancing behind. Making an apologetic gesture, they walked out of the room, but didn’t close the door. “It’s the boss,” they called. “He’s here.”

Sam, already huddling in the corner, shrank back even further. She didn’t want to meet this “boss”, whoever he was. And she especially didn’t want to learn about what he was planning to do, since she guessed that whatever had motivated their kidnapping, it wasn’t going to be beneficial to them.

The door was pushed all the way open from where it had fallen closed, and who she guessed was the “boss” walked in. He was a tall man, dressed in the black-and-red of the cultists but cut in a three-piece suit reminiscent of the Oil Era. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but she guessed that he had black hair going grey around the ears. Like the burly cultist before him, he scanned the room for her before his eyes finally found the corner. The abstract part of Sam’s mind not cowering in fear found that strange – shouldn’t they know where she was in the room, if they had put her here? – but she thought idly that it must have been one of their lackeys who had done so and then simply not mentioned where in the room she was.

A smile formed on his creased face, but there was no warmth behind it. He stuck out a hand, then glanced at her tied hands and laughed, pulling it back. “I’m Leon St. John, the de facto leader of our little organization. I apologize for the unfortunate circumstances of our meeting, but I’m sure you understand.”

Sam looked back at the leader of the cultists – Leon, she decided, not St. John. She wouldn’t call anyone who did things like the Brotherhood had done a saint, even if it was their name. She didn’t speak, though. What did he want her to say anyways? 

He drew out the silence a few seconds longer, then shattered it abruptly with a clap of his hands. “Not much of a talker, are we, Samarium?”

“What – how do you know my name?” she asked in confusion, a thousand possibilities already running through her head. It was a lucky guess. He had a spy in the Dome. The Brotherhood had gotten access to her papers somehow. Alexis had told them somehow.

He smiled again, somehow managing to inject even more menace into what should have been a friendly gesture. “I know lots of things, Samarium – or would you prefer the formal, Engineer Second Class Huygens?” She didn’t respond, so he continued, a fanatic gleam in his dark eyes. “You see, this is something we’ve been planning for a very long time. And so we’ve of course gotten all the necessary information that we would need, of course. Never let it be said that the Brotherhood of Blood and Oil was simply an anarchist group. We know what we’re doing.”

“And…what are you doing?” she asked. It was a risky question, but there was no value in being silent anymore. He already knew her name, rank, and whatever else his informants had found out, and clearly had some sort of plan for her. So she needed to find out what it was, and this was the quickest way.

The boss laughed. “Oh, you want to know our plans? The little cog wants to know what the machine does? Well…” he said, tapping his chin with a finger, “I suppose there’s no harm in it. And who knows, maybe we’d even be able to avoid some of the…unpleasantness that it would require.”

“You see,” Leon said, stepping back and spreading his arms. “I’m sure you already know our goals. I think we did a fair job of explaining them last year, and-”

“People died last year!” Sam snarled, cutting him off. “My brother died last year! How can you stand there and say – and say –“ She trailed off, choking back a sob. She had thought that she had moved past it – that her new life with Alexis had put it firmly in the past – but his callous mention of it had ripped open what had turned out to be only a scab. 

“Well, you know, our slogan isn’t ‘oil is thicker than blood’ for nothing. Now where was I?”

“You’re sick,” she said, the pain from the reopened wound hardening to anger. “You’re sick, and twisted and wrong. You…”

He appeared not to care. “Sacrifices must be made. But this is irrelevant. We want to see the world return to…a better time, shall we say. We have the resources for it, of course; hundreds of thousands of gallons of oil, ready for the time when the world will once again run on fumes. But to make that transition, we must…inhibit the power-generating capacity of your little domed city. After all, it’s competition that kills business.”

“You’ll never do it,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s built too well. Backups upon backups. I mean,” she continued, with a small laugh, “there’s probably five layers of redundant systems. That windmill you took out? We probably didn’t even need it, to be honest.”

“And that’s where you come in,” Leon said. “You know where these backups are. You know how they work. And you know how to break them.” He spun on his heel and started to walk back towards the door. “We will bring the city to its knees, until it has no choice-“ He spat the words onto the ground- “but to grovel for oil. And then the Era of Oil shall return!”

“Never,” she whispered, sinking lower. “I’ll never help you do that!”

He paused at the door. “You wouldn’t on your own. But that’s why we chose the pair of you. Because with two people, you get leverage.” And he stalked out of the room.

Alexis. They meant Alexis. They’d torture Alexis to try to get to her. Or torture her to try to get to Alexis. She didn’t know which one would be worse. But she couldn’t let it happen, because she knew that she’d probably tell them if they tortured Alexis. She’d do anything to stop that from happening.

Her frantic train of thought was interrupted by voices outside the still-open door. There was Leon’s voice, of course, and then another, higher and smoother than the boss’.

“-not to rough her up before!”

“-some of the others wanted a bit of vengeance,” the other voice said. “The engineer did drop some of the windmill on them, to be fair, sir.

“Still, that’s no excuse,” Leon’s voice said. “Have them disciplined, but not severely.” She heard steps walking off, and then he strode back into the room. He was dragging Alexis behind him. There were bruises covering her face, and a trickle of blood running from her mouth and nose. Her hands were tied behind her, and her legs as well. Sam tried to run forwards, see if she was alright; if they had hurt Alexis she would – well, do something – but she couldn’t, restrained as she was.

“Here’s your little engineer,” he said dismissively, letting Alexis drop to the floor. “Or would you be hers, since she’s First Class and you’re Second? Doesn’t matter,” he sneered. “We’ll see, soon enough, I suppose.” Scowling, he turned and stalked out of the room, this time slamming the door behind him.

“Alexis!” she whispered, leaning down to try and get as close to her as she could. “Are you all right? What did they do to you? What did you do to them?”

Alexis stirred a little, managing to crack one eye open through the crusted blood on her face. She smiled a little, but Sam could see her wince slightly in pain. “I dropped the windmill on them, Sam. The whole thing. Just…blam.”

She laughed a little in spite of the situation. “And you’re alright? They didn’t hurt you too badly?” she whispered again. 

“Do I look alright?” she replied, shifting a little and wincing again. “We gotta do something, Sam. I think they’re planning something. Something bad.”

“Yeah – the guy told me,” Sam said, the fear of what the cultists would do returning to her thoughts. “They want to use us to break down the power supply of the Dome so they can step in with their oil.”

“Well, we’re not going to do that, are we?” she replied with a forced smile, though it faded when she looked back up at Sam’s worried face.

“No – I mean use us. Like, take one of us, and – and –“ she started, but she couldn’t voice it. What they were planning to do. Alexis seemed to get the message, though.

“I see,” she said after a pause. “Well. What are we going to do about it?”

“I don’t know. We have to get a message back to the Dome, though, and then get out of here. But I don’t know how we’re going to do that, since we’re – a little…tied up, you know.”

Alexis shifted a little on the ground. “As an engineer, I am legally obligated to carry tools around in my pockets at all times. Now, they got most of them, but I believe there’s still a screwdriver or something in…let’s see…my left hip pocket. Flathead. Might be able to use it on the ropes.”

“I can’t reach your pockets though,” she said, straining. “You’re going to have to roll a little closer – or slide, actually.”

“Right. Let’s see what I can do.” She grunted, but managed to move a few inches along the hard ground. “I’m going to kill those bastard cultists who did this to me, you know? Because they didn’t beat me up like this to capture me. They had a tranquilizer and everything.”

“They beat you up while you were unconscious?” Sam asked in horror.

“Yep. Like I said, bastards. Can you reach my pocket yet?” she asked.

“Er…my hands are tied behind me. I’m not quite sure how we’re planning on doing this, actually,” she said.

Alexis stopped. “That is a problem, you’re right. Maybe if we – no, that wouldn’t work. Damn these cultists!”

Sam looked down at her. “Well…” she said, a fraction of a plan forming. “I can kind of see it sticking out of your pocket already – your shifting must have pushed it a little bit out already. If you can keep doing it, and then get it on the ground, then you could probably roll onto it and then grab it.”

“Yeah, that might work,” she said. “Hold on, then. Give me a minute.” She started to shift slightly in her bonds again, trying to force the screwdriver out of her pocket. It took a second, but eventually it fell and clattered on the stone ground. Alexis grinned, and rolled over, grasping the handle in her bound hands. “There! I should be able to get this in a second, but the screwdrivers aren’t meant to be sharp.”

“Okay,” Sam said, relaxing a little bit. “Then what are we going to do?”

“Well-“ Alexis said, face a little strained as she struggled to cut her bonds with a screwdriver, “-we need to get a message back to the Dome, first. Both to warn them, and so we can get a ride home, since it’s a long walk back. And then we gotta figure out how to stop the cultists here so they can’t keep attacking our stuff. You see any…communicators, computers, radios, anything like that?” she asked.

“No,” she said. “Sorry – I just woke up in here. I don’t know where anything is.”

“Ah-hah!” Alexis shouted, and held up her hands to indicate that her hands were free. “Got it! Now, I think I had a pocket knife in one of my zipper pockets that I can get now…” She unzipped another of the pockets on her jumpsuit, grinned, and yanked out a small red penknife. “Right then – let’s get these.”

It was much quicker for her to cut the ropes around her legs than it had been with the screwdriver, and in what she guessed was less than a minute Alexis was able to move on to the ropes around Sam’s arms and legs. She sawed at them with a passion until they too were cut, and then the two embraced each other. 

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” Sam said quietly, never wanting to let go of her partner again. 

“Me too. Now let’s get out of here.”

They moved quietly to the door, and Alexis peeked out of the small slotted window to check that there were no cultists around. Sam looked over her shoulder. They didn’t see any either by the door or in the hallway beyond, so Sam pushed the door open and they crept forwards into the hall, both of them looking nervously around.

“Where now?” Sam whispered. “I don’t see anything we can use to contact the Dome.”

“They must have something somewhere,” Alexis shot back. “I mean, neither of us have seen any more of this place than that room and this hallway, so-“ She shrugged.

Just then, they both heard the sound of steps echoing through the hall. “Shit,” Alexis muttered under her breath. Sam looked around frantically for a way out, and spotted a stairwell leading down just off to their left.

“Come on!” she hissed, and pulled Alexis down towards the stairs. She cursed, stumbling, but they managed to make it into the stairs just as the source of the steps reached the corner. Alexis made to glance out of the stairwell to see who it was, but Sam pulled her back down. “No!” she whispered. “They’ll see you! Come on, we have to get down here before they figure out that we’re gone!”

Alexis sighed, but went along as they moved down the stairs. They descended into darkness, and Sam felt along a wall for a light switch as they passed. It might give them away, but so would their blind stumbling if they didn’t turn the lights on. The hum of generators emanated from the darkness ahead, increasing in pitch and volume as they moved down the stairs, and Sam finally found a light switch on the wall. 

She flicked it on, and clinical white lights flickered on in the room ahead. It was filled with machinery – the generators they had heard – that were covered with readout lights and LEDs that indicated their status. Crammed into the same room were also what she guessed were hundreds of barrels of oil, all marked with the same symbols and labels.

Alexis looked over at her and smiled a mischievous smile. It was the smile she got just before making…questionable engineering decisions or unveiling one of her new devices. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked, a gleam in her eyes.

“Sorry, don’t think so,” Sam replied. “What are you thinking?”

She fished in her pockets for a second, muttering under her breath, then pulled out a packet of matches. “Well, we’ve got a lot of very flammable – or inflammable, I guess – liquid here, and a whole lot of cultists we want to inconvenience. What say we combine the two and light this place up?”

“I mean…” she said, hesitating, “would that work? And would we be able to get out afterwards? Because burning the whole place down sounds good, but not if it involves, you know, dying a horrible burning death.”

Alexis had pulled out a match and chewed on it absentmindedly as she looked over the oil barrels. “Well…we’d have to break some of the barrels open, obviously, and then maybe be ready to get out pretty quick, but it should work, yeah. I think.”

“Should work? You willing to bet both our lives on that?”

“Got a better plan? Now come on, help me with this.” She moved forwards towards the barrels. Sam didn’t follow. “Look. I know what I’m doing. And it’ll be fine. I haven’t worked much with oil, but I know how it works. Now please, I need your help getting the top of this barrel off so we can get it ready.”

She was still nervous about the plan, but she grudgingly accepted that if Alexis said it would work, then it would probably work. There was a reason she was an Engineer First Class while Sam was still only Second Class, although maybe that would change once they got back. She helped her partner yank off the top of one of the barrel lids, then looked down at the gloopy black liquid inside. “So what now?” she asked.

“Well…” She drew out the word as she thought. “I’d say, that if we want maximum effect, we pour a barrel or two on the floor so that the fire can spread, open up a few more to make sure they’re accessible for the flames, then light a match and run.”

“And that’ll give us time to get out?”

“Assuming we’re not standing directly in the middle of it, yes. Oil will burn quickly, but it’ll still take time to spread to everything else, so…we’ll just have to move fast. I mean, you could try and leave now, and then let me light everything up, but I have a feeling that you won’t do that,” Alexis said, tapping out a nervous rhythm on the side of the barrel. “Any suggestions for me, or do we just go ahead?”

Sam took a breath, then let it out slowly. “Alright. That sounds good. Just…what about the rest of the cultists? We’re not going to let them burn, are we?”

Her partner shrugged, evidently unconcerned. “I’m sure this place has a fire alarm, and this’ll definitely be enough to set it off. But right now, I’m more concerned with whether we can get out and get back to the Dome safely. Now come on, we need to work quickly.” 

She turned back to the open barrel of oil and tipped it over with a grunt, standing back as the thick liquid oozed over the floor, collecting around the machinery in dark pools. Sam noticed several warning lights come on in some of them, but didn’t mention anything. Instead, she walked over to Alexis and helped her open up another barrel and pour it on the ground, the dark black liquid now covering the entire ground and lapping at their boots.

Alexis took a step back and grinned, her face and arms now speckled with black dots of oil. “Well, that should be pretty when it goes up, shouldn’t it? We just need to open up a few more barrels, and that should do it.”

“Don’t,” Sam said quietly.

She spun to face her, slightly annoyed. “Don’t what?”

“Just…” She struggled to put it into words, but it was something she knew she had to say. “It’s just…it feels like you’re enjoying this. This destruction and fire and burning – that it’s something you want to happen. But it’s not. You’re an engineer – you build things. You create the most beautiful pieces of metal and wood and green – you don’t revel in smoke and ash and ruins. That’s not – that’s not the Alexis that I know, and…and…love.”

“But you shouldn’t enjoy it,” Sam said desperately. “That’s not – that’s not who you are.”

There was another moment of silence as they stared at each other. She searched Alexis’ face for a sign that she was right, that she knew her partner. Her eyes were hard, glistening against her oil-speckled face. “Why? Why shouldn’t I enjoy it? They’re going against everything we’ve ever worked for – everything we’ve ever built!” she shouted, slamming her fist onto the oil barrel with a clang.

“So what? They’re supposed to be the ones reveling in destruction!”

She hissed out a breath, “Fine. But I won’t feel sorry for them. They’ll burn just like they’ve burned everything else.”

“As long as – as you’re not becoming like them. Just…remember that’s not who you are. That’s all I’m asking.”

Alexis didn’t respond. She simply stepped back and surveyed the room, grim expression on her face. “So what do you think? Is this enough?”

“What?” Sam asked, taken slightly aback at the abrupt tone shift. “I…think so? It’s a lot of flammable stuff, so…”

“Great. Shall we?” She fished around in another of her pockets and pulled out a matchbox. “I knew I kept these for a reason,” she muttered as she lit one of them. She glanced at Sam. “Er…we should probably move towards the door. I don’t know quite how fast this will go up, and-“

She froze. Sam heard it too – footsteps coming down the stairs. “Is there another way out?” she whispered, looking frantically around the room. “Some – other stairs or something?”

“I – don’t think so,” Alexis replied, a waver in her voice. “Come on. Get behind me. I think I know how we have to do this.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked, nervous, but Alexis just shook her head.

Leon and two burly cultists, following him like a personal bodyguard, entered the room. “The two of you together. I would say I’m surprised, but-“ He spread his arms. “-I’m really not.”

“You. I don’t know who you are, but stay back.” Alexis held up the match, reflected all around them in the surface of the oil. “I will drop this.”

“Hmm. I see.” He didn’t sound concerned. “A right little standoff, isn’t it?”

“Just let us leave. Let us go and no one has to get hurt.”

“You know, that’s the funny thing. You’re acting all tough, but you won’t do it. Funny how your plans work out, isn’t it? I picked you two exactly for this reason. You’ll never be able to let the other get hurt.”

“I’ll do it!”

“Go on then.” There was more than a note of smugness in his voice. “I’m not backing down. So, I suppose this is the age-old question: the easy way or the hard way?”

The only sound was the faint hissing of the match. Alexis glanced over at Sam, with panic in her eyes, and shook her head. “I can’t,” she whispered.

Sam’s mind was racing. They couldn’t let the cultists take them. Not again. They wouldn’t be able to protect each other then, and they wouldn’t be able to protect the Dome. But she couldn’t see another way out. It had boiled down to these two choices; drop the match or not. There was nowhere to run, no other way out.

“Well?” Leon asked. “You going to come willingly?” Neither Alexis or Sam responded, and he just sighed. “I didn’t think so. Take them back upstairs,” he said, beckoning the two cultists forwards, “and keep them in separate rooms this time.”

Alexis gripped Sam’s arm and they backed away together. “What are we going to do?” she whispered, eyes darting frantically around. “I don’t have a plan – I don’t have anything! We can’t let them take us – but I can’t – I can’t –“

They reached the corner, where they couldn’t go any further. Alexis was still clutching the match, knuckles white. Sam hesitated, then reached out and closed her own hand around her partner’s. Alexis looked up at her. “We can’t.”

“We have to,” she whispered, feeling a tear start to trickle down her face. “There’s no other way out. They’ll take us – separate us – break us – this is the only way we escape.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know. But we’ll be together.”

“Well then.” Alexis was crying, but she forced a smile onto her face. “Let’s go out with style, shall we?”

They raised the match together. One last time, they squeezed their hands together then let go, the world condensing to just the two of them as the bright, flickering spark fell. They turned away just as the very tip of the flame touched the black surface. Nothing else mattered as the world dissolved into flame and heat. Nothing else mattered except the two of them, together the only way they could be.

——————————————————————————————————

Based on this prompt: 

There's nothing glamorous about the nearly 70-meter climb to check some idiot Luddite hasn't damaged the wind turbines. After that stupid denialist stunt last year, the splinter groups have gotten smaller and weirder--seriously, who thinks 'Oil is thicker than blood' is catchy and not, say, incredibly ominous and creepy? You're here, in howling winds, making sure they haven't destroyed the power to the 60,000 homes under your watch. But as you're about to start climbing down, you see the black-and-red shapes materialize out of the fog: they never left, and now they're waiting for you.

Tagging @solarpunkstoryexchange for this, and anyone else who was interested in my writing: so @cog-writes, @lady-redshield-writes, @ava-burton-writing, @ken-kenwrites, and @aschenink.

[ryttu3k]

The travelogues of Calliope, as they and their family cross America in the Sea Change Challenge.

A @solarpunkstoryexchange story by ryttu3k, using the prompts 'travel as education' and 'land sailing'.

[alexardov-blog]

Solarpunk Manifesto

I am a permaculturalist and a writer and since I discovered solarpunk I fell in love with it.

I read everything I could about solarpunk and I decided to reorganize in a Solarpunk Manifesto some of the material that was collected in the Solarpunk Reference Guide by @solarpunks.

I would like to publish it as "The Solarpunk Collective" without any specific autor, since I just reorganized it, but it was actually written by many different people. What do you think? I would love some feedback and comments and I would love if it was published in many different places. 

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1oSeD18lop83qVoMJSzcQVo_8wtTInaFLOo0qXrX41dM/edit?usp=sharing

We need to have the solarpunk wikipedia page back up and a solarpunk manifesto could lead to that.

@solarpunks @watsons-solarpunk @solarpunk-aesthetic @solarpunkwitchcraft @solarpunkfashionreview @tidalpunk @missolivialouise @solarpunknetwork @solarpunksideblog​ @solarpunkstoryexchange​ @solarpunksapphic​ @solarpunkpress​ @solarpunkprincess​ @solarpunkpunks​ @solarpunkpixieboy​ @solarpunkactionweek​​ @solarpunkandstainedglass​ @solarpunkarchivist​ @solarpunkandtea​ @solarpunkartist​ @solarpunk-afrofuturism​ @solarpunk-stuff​ @solarpunk-gnome​ @solarpunkbaby​ @solarpunkcast​ @solarpunkcitizen​ @solarpunkdreams​ @solarpunkexploration​ @solarpunkery​ @solarpunked​ @solarpunkfuturenow​ @solarpunkfashion​ @solarpunkgrrrl​ @solarpunkgay​ @solarpunkjunk​ @solarpunkmemes​ @solarpunknomadicecovillage-blog​ @solarpunkowly​ @solarpunkowl​ @solarpunkoasis​ @solarpunkreads​ @solarpunkrocks​ @solarpunkrebel​ @solarpunkregeneration​ @solarpunkturtle​ @solarpunkwitch​ @solarpunkworld​ @solarpunkworldbuild​ @thewritingsquid @watsons-solarpunk

Also, I am about to publish a novel (in Spanish) about permaculture in a solarpunk fashion and I would like to publish the Manifesto in it as well.

[peilinsirpale]

My piece for @solarpunkstoryexchange​ , a poem for the prompt “The feeling of cautious hope.“ I was also inspired by Greta Thunberg and the way she has spoken about something I call “apathetic hope vs active hope”. The first one leads to a false sense of security, while the latter inspires to act. The latter is what we need to find more of, and what I think solarpunk is about. 

”Once we start to act, hope is everywhere.”

In the clack of metal and the crash of glass when they fall to the recycling

in the chants of the young in the streets and at the steps of the parliament

in the reflection of light from windmills standing in the fields

in the native herbs under solar panels and the sheep grazing it low

in the lines being drawn to give ships power from the harbor grid

in the trains that go farther than planes and faster than cars

in the flowering trees in the parks around the city

in the lush urban garden boxes at the side of the road

in the snowy winter nights with geothermal heating instead of oil

in the summer days when the water is warm from the sun

in the new plant based foods popping up in the stores

in the vegetarian school lunches tasty and well made

in the seams of a dress mended to last and last

in the first leaves of potential food from rescued seeds

in the trees that get turned into houses and packages and more

in the trees that are let grow and get old

in the trees that are let die and rot

to house a fungus and a critter or ten.

”Once we start to act, hope is everywhere.”

[pangurbanthewhite]

Hey @solarpunkstoryexchange , I know I was probably hard to pin down, but here is my story! 

Title: A New Year Dawning

Name: Hicku

Prompts: “What will be here when the sun and wind breaks through the smog that we created?” and “We buried grandmother with the willow seed.”

Trigger warnings: Death, mentions of natural disasters and implied apocalypse, mild parental ableism. 

It was a common refrain in the olden days that the earth could not be destroyed, only humanity. It was a justification dressed up in optimism, the idea that nothing they did could really do any harm and so why change? It was apathy, plain and simple. So many people surrendered to the idea that death was inevitable and the world would turn on.

But some were determined to be there to see it keep turning.

When the sun broke through the smog for the last time, there were people there to see it. It was a day for celebration, in fact – in the ruins of the city, there was a tower, and that tower had been working for as long as anyone could remember – pulling smog from the air and compacting it into glass jewelry and building material. It was powered by wind turbines and an underground reservoir, just like all the rest of the surviving architecture was. The sun had been held back but the wind still turned and the water still flowed and that was enough to keep the smaller city humming along nicely for everyone.

One day the mechanics had realized that the day was coming when the tower wouldn’t work anymore because there was simply no more smog to pull out of the air, and so the people of the town that had once been Chicago, Illinois started counting down to a celebration, started preparing for a festival to properly welcome the sun back into their lives.

The earth had reclaimed the big cities and the factories long ago, and they stood as titanic, verdant monuments to the persistence of life. Humanity lived among them, now, walking on grass that had conquered concrete, dwelling in spaces that had once been offices and now grew blackberries from the vines that twined all along the walls. Apple trees had eaten through cars and birds nested in sewage drains that hadn’t pumped any wastes into the water for a long time. It was a quiet, peaceful place now, and far more compact, with a great deal more space converted to farmland and office spaces converted to housing.

Some people were alive who could still remember when every building face hadn’t been coated in some kind of green, but none of them really liked to talk about it. The truth was that they hadn’t even really had to do anything to make it happen, they’d just…stopped trying to stop it. But that hadn’t meant stopping trying to ensure their own survival, either, it had just meant trying something new. Humanity had always been good at adapting. They’d just focused that skill in a new direction.

The first new day the city had seen in decades dawned. Already, there were crowds outside to greet it, people hanging out their windows and gathered in the mossy streets and waiting with bated breath to see the sun rise in a clear sky, some of them for the first time.

When it did, a great cheer rose up to rival the din of the old days.

Mathilda Logans was not there, however, and her friend Zinnia Grace was worried.

Mathilda had trouble breathing, plagued with asthma and weak lungs and chronic fatigue. She was often in and out of the hospital, often forced to stay inside where the houseplants could do the job of clearing the air for her so that her oxygen pump didn’t have to work quite as hard. They’d met when Zinnia was in getting the fit on her prosthetic leg readjusted and in the end they’d gotten to talking about romance novels, even swapping their respective books once they’d finish reading them in the waiting room. Mathilda and her family had only been in town for the past month or so, but Zinnia liked to think they were friends, and she’d even hung out at Mathilda’s house a couple of times so they could birdwatch the trees that grew from the windows across the street.

This meant Zinnia had also known for a while that Mathilda might not be feeling well enough to make it. So she’d gone to the Logans’ apartment that morning to see if there was anything she could do to help.

“It’s so nice of you to drop by, Zinnia,” Mathilda’s mother had said. “But I thought she was already going off to meet with you.”

“No,” said Zinnia. “Haven’t seen her all day.” And she was worried, despite herself. She hoped her friend hadn’t felt forced to overexert herself for the sake of joining in the festivities.

She thought for a long moment, staring down at her cup of green tea, and finally ventured, hesitantly: “But I think I know where she might be.” She hoped she was right – anything to stop Mathilda’s mother looking so worried.

With that, Zinnia gulped down the rest of her tea, said a hasty goodbye, retrieved her bike from outside, and started hastily peddling off towards the river, her braids flying along behind her. Every so often she had to duck and weave her way around people heading in the opposite direction, heading towards the festival at Tower Park.

She was just peddling over the bridge, rusted over beneath a cloak of moss and vines, when she saw movement on the grassy slope a little down the shore. Zinnia hastily braked and changed course, and called out as she got closer and passed by an empty parked wheelchair. “Mathilda! Mathilda, is that you!”

Mathilda Logans was kneeling in the grass and staring fixedly at something in front of her. But she looked over her shoulder as she saw Zinnia approaching at speed, and then she took Zinnia by surprise by damn near throwing herself between her friend and the little spot of grass. “W-Wait, hold on!”

Zinnia braked, hard, throwing up a small spray of dirt as she did so and nearly falling off. “Been looking everywhere for you! Why’d you go and lie to your mom?”

Her best friend blushed. “It’s stupid. Didn’t wanna worry her about it.”

Zinnia let out a huff and got off the bike, going to kneel beside her friend in the cool, damp grass. “It’s not stupid! Obviously! Whatcha doin’?” She caught sight of some dirt caking Mathilda’s palms and took a safe guess. “Bit of gardening?”

“Y-Yeah.” Mathilda looked at Zinnia warily, as if gauging whether or not she could trust her with a secret. Until, finally, she lifted her other hand from where it had been carefully cradling the earth, and Zinnia saw that through the grass a tiny sprout was growing.

“Woah!” she said, leaning closer. “What’s that? Did you grow that?”

“Yeah.” Now Mathilda was still blushing, but she was smiling as well. “I didn’t know willow trees grew this fast. I only got out here a few days ago to plant it. I’m…” She took a deep, shuddering breath, closed her eyes, and let it out – and, as she did so, it was like she was letting the tension of years out with her. “I carried this all the way here from Bloomington, it would have bee awful to…lose it or break it or something.”

“Is it a special seed?”

“It’s my grandma.”

Zinnia tilted her head curiously, trying to keep her confusion off her face until Mathilda found the words to explain. And she was gratified when the other girl tried to do so, though she stumbled and stammered over her words all the while. Her gaze remained fixed on the little sapling like it was the most beautiful thing in the world – which it sort of was, in the way that all new life was.

“When grandma died, we buried her with a willow seed. She wanted it that way, you know? This was…back when things were still kind of bad, I think. Everywhere. I don’t really remember it, but that’s what mom said. She and dad didn’t really know what she was getting on about, but they did it, and…and I don’t really remember her face anymore, but I remember that tree. Even with all the smog, it grew pretty quick.” The memories were clearly making her a little emotional – Zinnia watched as Mathilda looked away from her entirely to try and hide the way she wiped at her eyes. “I think that’s when mom and dad decided to move us here. It’s like…when they saw that tree grow, they realized I could still grow. Y’know? So I think they thought this place would be better for me, with the tower and the water.”

“Has it been?”

“I think so.” She mustered up a watery smile and managed to look Zinnia in the eye for a moment. “The company’s pretty good, too.”

Now it was Zinnia’s turn to blush and look away, down at the little willow sapling. “So you took a seed…” she ventured. “And you brought it here?”

“Yeah. We live a couple floors up, now, so I couldn’t really plant it in the yard like back home. But…I thought she might like it here, by the water. And, and it’s not too far, so. um, I can come visit. I know it’s not the same tree, but…it’s kind of the same, right?”

“Definitely!” Zinnia answered emphatically, pumping her fist. “It’s not the same tree, but it came from that tree, and your grandma made that tree! So you carried her all this way! That’s pretty cool.”

Mathilda giggled, obviously a little overwhelmed with the praise, and reached out to squeeze Zinnia’s hand where it rested in the grass. “Th-Thanks.”

“I’d kinda like to be a tree when I die, too. How about you?”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Then someone could take a seed from us and carry it somewhere else. It’s like there’d be more of us when we died instead of less.”

“More life from death instead of less,” Mathilda mused, and she smiled dreamily and stared out over the water. “Yeah. That would be pretty cool. Maybe the whole world really could be just green and blue someday. I’m just…I’m really glad this little seed sprouted in time. I think the whole day would have been ruined for me if she couldn’t be here to see it.”

“I get ya.” Zinnia was so happy for her friend in that moment that she reached out and wrapped an arm around Mathilda’s shoulders, squeezing in a sideways hug. “And hey, I can come out and water it sometimes, if you’re ever having a bad day.”

“Thanks.” And Mathilda was apparently so grateful for the offer that she leaned over and shyly kissed Zinnia’s cheek. And the look on Zinnia’s face as she did so was apparently so funny that Mathilda laughed instead of giving into embarrassment.

“Shut up!” Zinnia whined, hiding her face as Mathilda laughed harder than she’d ever heard her do so. “You’re awful, catching me off guard like that!”

“Sorry.” She didn’t look it, though. In fact, she looked so adorably pleased with herself that Zinnia kissed her full on the mouth, there in the grass by the river as the sounds of the First Annual Sun Celebration grew louder and more enthusiastic in the distance.

Mathilda didn’t seem to mind at all.

In the end, Zinnia helped Mathilda back into her wheelchair and guided her bike alongside her and they made their slow, contented way to the festival. Pigeons took flight at their approach, their wings gleaming in the light of the sun, and squirrels darted and danced from branch to windowsill more enthusiastically than Zinnia had ever seen. They even spotted a doe and her fawn nibbling at some clover in the shadow of an empty skyscraper, and Zinnia was able to snap a quick picture with her camera before they wandered away. “Another one for the wall!”

She had a dream to snap a picture of every animal in the world. She knew she’d never get that far, but that was part of the fun.

The festival was only just getting into full swing by the time they got to Tower Park. There were booths handing out fresh produce from the first harvest of the year, and others offered bags seeds for the pigeons. There were games and an enthusiastic community gardening effort already underway. After all, when the tower finally powered down for the last time, they didn’t want to leave the space unused. This park had done so much to keep the city going through so many bad times, and they wanted it to continue being a part of their community through the good times to come.

Mathilda won a stuffed toy at the ring toss and Zinnia got the closest picture of a dove she’d ever managed. Mathilda gave herself a strawberry milkshake mustache and Zinnia stuffed herself full of poppyseed bread and apple preserves.

But all the while as they had their fun and went about their day and took pictures and got their hands dirty, the two friends couldn’t help but spare increasingly periodic glances towards the smog clearing tower in the center of the park. They weren’t the only ones, though. Soon, it felt like everyone was holding their breath, until at last Mayor Lorelei got up on a box and called through a megaphone. “Everyone! May I have your attention, please? The technicians have informed me that the moment is upon us! Let the countdown begin!”

“Ten,” whispered Zinnia.

“Nine,” murmured Mathilda.

“Eight!” chanted the crowd. “Seven!”

“Seven.” Zinnia reached out and took Mathilda’s hand.

“Six.” Mathilda squeezed her fingers.

“Five! Four!”

“Three.” Zinnia looked at Mathilda and smiled.

“Two.” Mathilda pulled her closer.

“One!” cried the people of the green and sunlit town, as the tower powered down from lack of smog in the air and Mathilda kissed Zinnia there in the thrum of joyous people. “Happy New Year!”

“Think it’s gonna be a pretty great one,” Zinnia whispered as they pulled away.

“I think it’s going to be a pretty good life,” Mathilda agreed.

“We’ll make it happen.”

Then they went and got more milkshakes, and sat and watched the birds in the shadow of the silent tower.

[solarpunkwitchcraft]

Choking

by Solarpunk Witchcraft

@solarpunkstoryexchange

Prompt: Mermaids exist within our oceans, and Atlantis is starting to fill up with plastic.

The Choking came suddenly, little bits of diaphanous material that spun around the water, invisible, that tangled up in throats, that disguised itself as krill and killed sea creatures from the inside out.

At first, the merfolk dismissed it. “Just another surface dweller experiment,” they said, shaking their heads at the primitive inventions of their oversea counterparts.

But tides cam and tides went, and the Earth rotated around its axis, and the Choking kept coming. It filled up the stomachs of the seabirds and chocked the turtles and merfolk would come back from their days of exploration with cuts on their legs and their tales. It began to collect in the gears of the great Atlantis machines and engineers had to be sent down to wrestle it out. It clogged up the hydroponic farms. It got slowed their generators. There were even worse tails, ones that were shared through whispers and worried looks. There were tiny pieces of Choking, too small to see, but large enough to get caught in a gill and kill a mermaid, bam, just like that, no warning.

In those days, the merfolk feared the Choking. The priests said that it was a sign from the Great Dwellers below, that it was a punishment. Signs were traced in algae outside apartment doors. Elaborate necklaces were made, that protected the gills, while still looking fashionable. Children woke up late at night to hear their families whispering, about the coming end, about what they were going to do, about abandoning Atlantis.

But the Choking was everywhere, from the beaches to the icebergs to the deep sea trenches where strange, luminescent merfolk lived, apart from the rest of their kind. There was no escape, except for the one whispered of by the most radical Preachers, the world above the surface world, a world dark and pinpricked with light, where there lay vast worlds of only water, with no land to be found. Merfolk dies and burial mounds filled up with kelp, each strand representing a loved one. Mourning songs filled the coral halls of Atlantis.

Then the merfolk were angry. They planned attacks on the surface world, using the waves as their weapons, creating tsunamis. But after such attacks, the pollution grew worse, with surface debris filling the currents, smothering fish. The ocean grew hotter and sicker. Strange, wrong-covered algaes blocked out the light. These algaes were also attacked, but the attackers died, found floating several tides later, their bodies covered with strange diseases.

After the anger came mourning. The streets of Atlantis were quiet now. The survivors, merfolk and sea creature alike floated listlessly, nodding to one another with the grim recognition of survivors. The generators stopped working for days at a time, the city plunged into darkness. The merfolk got used to living with only the light of bioluminescent pets. The hydroponic farms grew weak and sickly, and the merfolk grew sickly as well, subsisting off shriveled seaweed and disintegrating kelp. Their great machines, which kept time and made music and created art, had long sat dormant in the city square. There were only stories of beauty now, of life, and the merfolk told them to each other, sad smiles on their lips. It was a time of remembering, but not a time of living.

Finally the merfolk, the scattered remainder, the descendants of that lost and melancholic generation, grew hopeful. They gathered in small but determined groups, among the graveyards that used to be coral forests. “We cannot defeat this,” some said. “Though our ancestors tried. We must learn to live with it.”

And those merfolk began to build, working off the plans that were stored in the Great Atlantis Library. They built and they tore down and they modified, and finally, they created. Great new machined began to fill the city square, but these ones were not machines of art-making, but rather ones of survival. These machines took Choking from the air and transformed it into electricity that turned the lights of Atlantis on again. Other machines surrounded the cities, great sweeping nets that captured the Choking, so that merfolk could collect it. Still more machines translated Choking into building materials and soon art began to appear on the streets again, soon coral forest were rebuilt, with artificial skeletons.

Other merfolk did think the Choking could be beaten, could be gotten rid of, though not with bone spears or electric weapons. These merfolk discarded the stories of the ancestors, the stories that had come before Choking. These stories advised the merfolk to stick to themselves, to never go near the surface world. But now, the surface had come to them, had wrapped its arms around their gills. And so, these merfolk swam up to the surface, beached themselves on rocky shores. There was Choking here too, littering the beaches, in screaming colors. Humans, so clumsy looking, so ungraceful, gaped at the merfolk, held up strange contraptions, began to run toward them.

The merfolk, their tails wrapped in nets and Chocking, their hair slick with oil, held out their hands. It was not a gesture of submission, although their scales were dull and their bodies shriveled. It was an invitation.

Come with us, their outstretched hands said, let us show you a better world.

[solarpunkstoryexchange]

A New Year Dawning

Written by Hicku @pangurbanthewhite, for the prompts “What will be here when the sun and wind breaks through the smog that we created?” and “We buried grandmother with the willow seed.” Prompts from @solarpoweredwordsandthoughts. 

Content warnings:  Death, mentions of natural disasters and implied apocalypse, mild parental ableism.

It was a common refrain in the olden days that the earth could not be destroyed, only humanity. It was a justification dressed up in optimism, the idea that nothing they did could really do any harm and so why change? It was apathy, plain and simple. So many people surrendered to the idea that death was inevitable and the world would turn on.

But some were determined to be there to see it keep turning.

When the sun broke through the smog for the last time, there were people there to see it. It was a day for celebration, in fact – in the ruins of the city, there was a tower, and that tower had been working for as long as anyone could remember – pulling smog from the air and compacting it into glass jewelry and building material. It was powered by wind turbines and an underground reservoir, just like all the rest of the surviving architecture was. The sun had been held back but the wind still turned and the water still flowed and that was enough to keep the smaller city humming along nicely for everyone.

One day the mechanics had realized that the day was coming when the tower wouldn’t work anymore because there was simply no more smog to pull out of the air, and so the people of the town that had once been Chicago, Illinois started counting down to a celebration, started preparing for a festival to properly welcome the sun back into their lives.

The earth had reclaimed the big cities and the factories long ago, and they stood as titanic, verdant monuments to the persistence of life. Humanity lived among them, now, walking on grass that had conquered concrete, dwelling in spaces that had once been offices and now grew blackberries from the vines that twined all along the walls. Apple trees had eaten through cars and birds nested in sewage drains that hadn’t pumped any wastes into the water for a long time. It was a quiet, peaceful place now, and far more compact, with a great deal more space converted to farmland and office spaces converted to housing.

Some people were alive who could still remember when every building face hadn’t been coated in some kind of green, but none of them really liked to talk about it. The truth was that they hadn’t even really had to do anything to make it happen, they’d just…stopped trying to stop it. But that hadn’t meant stopping trying to ensure their own survival, either, it had just meant trying something new. Humanity had always been good at adapting. They’d just focused that skill in a new direction.

The first new day the city had seen in decades dawned. Already, there were crowds outside to greet it, people hanging out their windows and gathered in the mossy streets and waiting with bated breath to see the sun rise in a clear sky, some of them for the first time.

When it did, a great cheer rose up to rival the din of the old days.

Mathilda Logans was not there, however, and her friend Zinnia Grace was worried.

Mathilda had trouble breathing, plagued with asthma and weak lungs and chronic fatigue. She was often in and out of the hospital, often forced to stay inside where the houseplants could do the job of clearing the air for her so that her oxygen pump didn’t have to work quite as hard. They’d met when Zinnia was in getting the fit on her prosthetic leg readjusted and in the end they’d gotten to talking about romance novels, even swapping their respective books once they’d finish reading them in the waiting room. Mathilda and her family had only been in town for the past month or so, but Zinnia liked to think they were friends, and she’d even hung out at Mathilda’s house a couple of times so they could birdwatch the trees that grew from the windows across the street.

This meant Zinnia had also known for a while that Mathilda might not be feeling well enough to make it. So she’d gone to the Logans’ apartment that morning to see if there was anything she could do to help.

“It’s so nice of you to drop by, Zinnia,” Mathilda’s mother had said. “But I thought she was already going off to meet with you.”

“No,” said Zinnia. “Haven’t seen her all day.” And she was worried, despite herself. She hoped her friend hadn’t felt forced to overexert herself for the sake of joining in the festivities.

She thought for a long moment, staring down at her cup of green tea, and finally ventured, hesitantly: “But I think I know where she might be.” She hoped she was right – anything to stop Mathilda’s mother looking so worried.

With that, Zinnia gulped down the rest of her tea, said a hasty goodbye, retrieved her bike from outside, and started hastily peddling off towards the river, her braids flying along behind her. Every so often she had to duck and weave her way around people heading in the opposite direction, heading towards the festival at Tower Park.

She was just peddling over the bridge, rusted over beneath a cloak of moss and vines, when she saw movement on the grassy slope a little down the shore. Zinnia hastily braked and changed course, and called out as she got closer and passed by an empty parked wheelchair. “Mathilda! Mathilda, is that you!”

Mathilda Logans was kneeling in the grass and staring fixedly at something in front of her. But she looked over her shoulder as she saw Zinnia approaching at speed, and then she took Zinnia by surprise by damn near throwing herself between her friend and the little spot of grass. “W-Wait, hold on!”

Zinnia braked, hard, throwing up a small spray of dirt as she did so and nearly falling off. “Been looking everywhere for you! Why’d you go and lie to your mom?”

Her best friend blushed. “It’s stupid. Didn’t wanna worry her about it.”

Zinnia let out a huff and got off the bike, going to kneel beside her friend in the cool, damp grass. “It’s not stupid! Obviously! Whatcha doin’?” She caught sight of some dirt caking Mathilda’s palms and took a safe guess. “Bit of gardening?”

“Y-Yeah.” Mathilda looked at Zinnia warily, as if gauging whether or not she could trust her with a secret. Until, finally, she lifted her other hand from where it had been carefully cradling the earth, and Zinnia saw that through the grass a tiny sprout was growing.

“Woah!” she said, leaning closer. “What’s that? Did you grow that?”

“Yeah.” Now Mathilda was still blushing, but she was smiling as well. “I didn’t know willow trees grew this fast. I only got out here a few days ago to plant it. I’m…” She took a deep, shuddering breath, closed her eyes, and let it out – and, as she did so, it was like she was letting the tension of years out with her. “I carried this all the way here from Bloomington, it would have bee awful to…lose it or break it or something.”

“Is it a special seed?”

“It’s my grandma.”

Zinnia tilted her head curiously, trying to keep her confusion off her face until Mathilda found the words to explain. And she was gratified when the other girl tried to do so, though she stumbled and stammered over her words all the while. Her gaze remained fixed on the little sapling like it was the most beautiful thing in the world – which it sort of was, in the way that all new life was.

“When grandma died, we buried her with a willow seed. She wanted it that way, you know? This was…back when things were still kind of bad, I think. Everywhere. I don’t really remember it, but that’s what mom said. She and dad didn’t really know what she was getting on about, but they did it, and…and I don’t really remember her face anymore, but I remember that tree. Even with all the smog, it grew pretty quick.” The memories were clearly making her a little emotional – Zinnia watched as Mathilda looked away from her entirely to try and hide the way she wiped at her eyes. “I think that’s when mom and dad decided to move us here. It’s like…when they saw that tree grow, they realized I could still grow. Y’know? So I think they thought this place would be better for me, with the tower and the water.”

“Has it been?”

“I think so.” She mustered up a watery smile and managed to look Zinnia in the eye for a moment. “The company’s pretty good, too.”

Now it was Zinnia’s turn to blush and look away, down at the little willow sapling. “So you took a seed…” she ventured. “And you brought it here?”

“Yeah. We live a couple floors up, now, so I couldn’t really plant it in the yard like back home. But…I thought she might like it here, by the water. And, and it’s not too far, so. um, I can come visit. I know it’s not the same tree, but…it’s kind of the same, right?”

“Definitely!” Zinnia answered emphatically, pumping her fist. “It’s not the same tree, but it came from that tree, and your grandma made that tree! So you carried her all this way! That’s pretty cool.”

Mathilda giggled, obviously a little overwhelmed with the praise, and reached out to squeeze Zinnia’s hand where it rested in the grass. “Th-Thanks.”

“I’d kinda like to be a tree when I die, too. How about you?”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Then someone could take a seed from us and carry it somewhere else. It’s like there’d be more of us when we died instead of less.”

“More life from death instead of less,” Mathilda mused, and she smiled dreamily and stared out over the water. “Yeah. That would be pretty cool. Maybe the whole world really could be just green and blue someday. I’m just…I’m really glad this little seed sprouted in time. I think the whole day would have been ruined for me if she couldn’t be here to see it.”

“I get ya.” Zinnia was so happy for her friend in that moment that she reached out and wrapped an arm around Mathilda’s shoulders, squeezing in a sideways hug. “And hey, I can come out and water it sometimes, if you’re ever having a bad day.”

“Thanks.” And Mathilda was apparently so grateful for the offer that she leaned over and shyly kissed Zinnia’s cheek. And the look on Zinnia’s face as she did so was apparently so funny that Mathilda laughed instead of giving into embarrassment.

“Shut up!” Zinnia whined, hiding her face as Mathilda laughed harder than she’d ever heard her do so. “You’re awful, catching me off guard like that!”

“Sorry.” She didn’t look it, though. In fact, she looked so adorably pleased with herself that Zinnia kissed her full on the mouth, there in the grass by the river as the sounds of the First Annual Sun Celebration grew louder and more enthusiastic in the distance.

Mathilda didn’t seem to mind at all.

In the end, Zinnia helped Mathilda back into her wheelchair and guided her bike alongside her and they made their slow, contented way to the festival. Pigeons took flight at their approach, their wings gleaming in the light of the sun, and squirrels darted and danced from branch to windowsill more enthusiastically than Zinnia had ever seen. They even spotted a doe and her fawn nibbling at some clover in the shadow of an empty skyscraper, and Zinnia was able to snap a quick picture with her camera before they wandered away. “Another one for the wall!”

She had a dream to snap a picture of every animal in the world. She knew she’d never get that far, but that was part of the fun.

The festival was only just getting into full swing by the time they got to Tower Park. There were booths handing out fresh produce from the first harvest of the year, and others offered bags seeds for the pigeons. There were games and an enthusiastic community gardening effort already underway. After all, when the tower finally powered down for the last time, they didn’t want to leave the space unused. This park had done so much to keep the city going through so many bad times, and they wanted it to continue being a part of their community through the good times to come.

Mathilda won a stuffed toy at the ring toss and Zinnia got the closest picture of a dove she’d ever managed. Mathilda gave herself a strawberry milkshake mustache and Zinnia stuffed herself full of poppyseed bread and apple preserves.

But all the while as they had their fun and went about their day and took pictures and got their hands dirty, the two friends couldn’t help but spare increasingly periodic glances towards the smog clearing tower in the center of the park. They weren’t the only ones, though. Soon, it felt like everyone was holding their breath, until at last Mayor Lorelei got up on a box and called through a megaphone. “Everyone! May I have your attention, please? The technicians have informed me that the moment is upon us! Let the countdown begin!”

“Ten,” whispered Zinnia.

“Nine,” murmured Mathilda.

“Eight!” chanted the crowd. “Seven!”

“Seven.” Zinnia reached out and took Mathilda’s hand.

“Six.” Mathilda squeezed her fingers.

“Five! Four!”

“Three.” Zinnia looked at Mathilda and smiled.

“Two.” Mathilda pulled her closer.

“One!” cried the people of the green and sunlit town, as the tower powered down from lack of smog in the air and Mathilda kissed Zinnia there in the thrum of joyous people. “Happy New Year!”

“Think it’s gonna be a pretty great one,” Zinnia whispered as they pulled away.

“I think it’s going to be a pretty good life,” Mathilda agreed.

“We’ll make it happen.”

Then they went and got more milkshakes, and sat and watched the birds in the shadow of the silent tower.

[coppersunshine]

Solistra

For the @solarpunkstoryexchange, from the prompt (paraphrased):  ...there is another land, where wizards hammer out sheets of copper to direct the rays of the Sun to their will, where forest and farmland are the same thing, and strangest of all, there are neither slaves nor kings...

Content warnings: referenced parent death, referenced sickness

The tax collector came a week after their mother died. Barely in the ground, and so soon after their father, too, both dead of the sickness that had swept the village.

The tax collector came looking for money he knew they wouldn’t find, not from the two remaining members of the Crose family, all of it gone to doctor’s bills and the funerals and with the wheat not even out of the ground yet.

The tax collector came, and forced them out of the house, had his men dump the family’s possessions out on the road while Emila and Zaven stood watching. Zaven cried, sobs shaking his frame while his sister held him, watching their lives thrown out in the dirt. Her face was graven stone; she didn’t speak, or make a noise, not even when the tax collector leered at her, and told her their Lord would be glad to take her on scrubbing floors and warming beds, one as pretty as she. Emila said nothing, just stared him in the eye until he grew disquieted, spat at her feet, and muttered about the uncanniness of her stare, though there was nothing queerer about it than that a woman so young would dare to meet his eye with contempt, determination, and poise.

She watched until they disappeared down the road, stony-faced and her brother hiccoughing against her, and then she spoke.

“Hush, Zaven. They’re gone; let us gather what we can and be gone from here.”

He nodded, face blotchy from the tears, and they rummaged through their family’s wracked possessions, gathering that which Emila deemed useful and light enough to carry.

They marched out of the village, the last of the Crose, Emila with her head high, and her brother close to her side.

 They were a half hour down the road before Zaven managed to speak. “Emila, where are we going?”

“North,” she said. “We’re going to find Solistra.” There was a certain unquestionableness about her tone, though that didn’t stop him from questioning it, waveringly.

“But--but Solistra isn’t real. It’s just a story.”

She stopped and drew him close to her. “Yes, it’s a story. But people wouldn’t whisper about it so if there wasn’t some truth to it. We’ll find it, and be safe. Believe me, Zaven. I promise.”

He nodded, eyes wide.

“We can tell stories of it as we walk,” she said, and started down the road. “I hear Solistra is as golden as the sun.”

“That it glows with magic,” he added.

“Yes, and that people are free there. That the only taxes are paid to one another, not some Lord, and never more than one can spare.”

“I heard a man say they bend the sun itself to their will.”

Emila smiled. “I heard that they welcome everyone, no matter how weary or poor. Especially if you’re weary and poor. That only those too strung up on their own money and pride are turned away. I heard a Lord once tried to visit and buy their secrets, and they refused him.”

The boy grinned, then frowned, remembering. “But Emila, they also say that they draw their magic from demons, that there’s darkness beneath the light!”

She nodded, serious. “Yes, I know. I think it’s a story put about by the Lords. For who would have more to lose if the people all left the farms and towns and went to help build a new country? They’d be penniless overnight. They want us to think Solistra is dark and dangerous, to keep us afraid. But I’m not afraid. And even if there are demons, with horns and teeth and glowing eyes, better a demon that treats people with kindness than a Lord who would starve his people so as to furnish his keep.” She spoke bitterly. “I think the Lords are demon enough, for all their fine clothing and fine horses and all their fine damn finery. They are demons beneath it.”

Zaven nodded, his eyes wide. “D’you think we’ll get to see a real demon?” he asked.

Emila laughed. “Maybe. If there really are any, I’ll make sure you get to see one.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, brother, I promise. But you mustn’t hold it against me if there are no demons on this earth, and all we meet are people of ordinary flesh.”

 They had no firm direction to their travel. Solistra was north, anyone could tell you that, but the distance or precise location was unknown. It worried Emila slightly, that they might not be able to reach it before the summer faded and travel became hard, for she knew they wouldn’t survive the winter. But nearly all of summer lay before them, and autumn, with easy foraging and hunting and weather warm enough that sleeping outdoors was no great burden. Zaven had always been clever with plants, so they ate greens and berries and sometimes roots, and Emila’s slingshot brought them small game enough to keep them fed and content. They stayed off the main roads and kept away from strangers, for they were both wary of others; though their ragged clothing clearly marked them as not worth thieving from, Emila knew they could still be targeted, for the slave trade, or whatever evil purpose, and better to take precautions, even with their father’s long dagger hanging from her belt.

 They travelled near a month. A month of sleeping under trees, eating what they could find, and walking all day, so much walking. Emila was tired of it, though she didn’t let it show, lest her brother catch her melancholy. He had finally begun to play again. When they found a stream, he would run around in it, soaking his clothing trying to catch frogs. It was a good thing. He too, had been so sick, with their parents, and he was still thin, though that was hard to help, eating as they did and walking so far each day. Emila almost despaired of ever reaching Solistra, except that without Solistra they had nothing, and she would walk to the end of the earth and back if she had to.

 In a coincidence befitting the land’s reputation, it was only the next day they saw the first sign for Solistra, during the high afternoon when they both were weary and dull. The sign made of bright, polished copper, not a trace of tarnish on it. It read: Solistra, 15 miles.

Emila’s heart leapt. It was true!

“Do you see it, brother! We’re nearing Solistra. We can be there tomorrow!”

He grinned, bounding over to the sign with joy, and tracing his hand over it rapturously. “I can hardly imagine it anymore. Do you think it’ll be as good as they say, Emila?”

“It is. It must be.”

“We could walk there tonight!”

She shook her head, laughing. “I’m not walking all night so we can creep up while everyone’s abed. It’s hardly sociable. No, Zaven, we’ll have one more night in the wilderness, and come to Solistra well-rested, in the light of day.”

Their steps were light after, their weariness set aside for new found energy. And if they did not sleep sound that night, too giddy with what lie ahead, whispering the stories to each other all over again, that can be understood. Hope is a wonderful thing, and now they had hope backed by tangible truth. Solistra was real.

 The two Crose set off early the next morning, before the sun had more than suggested itself over the horizon, and their pace rather quicker than before.

It was noon when they reached an arch which spanned the road, made of local stone and copper lettering which proclaimed “Welcome to Solistra”. Zaven cried, tears running down his face. ‘We’re here, sister.”

She smiled at him. “Yes, we’re here.”

For all her hope, however, Emila was practical. They knew now that Solistra was real, but that didn’t mean all the great and magical stories were. “Zaven, will you stay close to me, and keep quiet until we’ve checked it out some?”

“What do you mean?”

“We know the stories, Zaven, but we don’t know they’re real yet. I’d rather we keep ourselves safe until we know Solistra is as good as the whispers, okay?”

“What’ll we do if it’s not?”

“Why, find a new story, of course.” She smiled and clasped his hand in hers. “Besides, I’m sure it’s every bit as good as people say. Are you ready?”

He nodded, and they stepped under the arch into Solistra.

They had been walking perhaps a half hour when they came across the first farm. At least, Emila supposed it must be a farm, since there was food growing, and people tending it, though it was unlike any farm they had ever seen. All different kind of plants grew jumbled together, none of the straight rows and precise order she was familiar with. Trees grew overhead, shading where shade was needed, and with berries and fruits of all kinds adorning their branches. It was truly a paradise.

A woman came out of the midst of it, smiling at them. “Hello! You’re new. Braved the demons to find the truth, eh? You’ll want to find Mazura, she’ll get you all set up. –Oh, but where are my manners? I’m Sofia. You must have been traveling a ways, huh? Come, take whatever fruit you like. I can vouch especially for the mulberries, they’re wonderful this morning.”

Emila spoke. “Oh, no, we couldn’t possibly take anything from you.”

The woman snorted. “Please, that’s what it’s here for. Can’t have people going hungry on the road, can we? Besides, you look half-starved. And what were your names, dears?”

“I’m Zaven,” he spoke. “This is Emila.”

“Well,” Sofia said, “Let me be the first to welcome to Solistra. I warrant you’ve had a hard time of it—nearly everyone here has—and we’ll be mor’n happy to have you. Go on, then, here, take these.” She handed them a basket filled near to the brim with all manner of berries. “Now, Mazura’s near a leader as we have, though she’d glare at me something awful if she heard me saying as such. But she’ll know where there’s room for you two, and sort out the details better’n I could. Here, I’ll walk you so’s you don’t get lost.”

And that was that, and Sofia was leading them down the road, chattering all the way about whatever struck her fancy. Emila kept mostly quiet, but Zaven chattered back, clearly having forgotten her warning in the face of a kind stranger bearing food.

An hour later, they reached what seemed to be a town, although the houses, too, were strange, built into the earth and up in the trees, and all strange shapes to Emila’s eye, hardly a corner to look at, and everything decorated with bright copper—some engraved, some hammered, some practically glowing in the sunlight.

“I’ve never seen so much metal,” said Emila.

“Oh, yes,” said Sofia. “Isn’t it lovely? Mazura’s got a real gift with it. Now, we’ll stop in here. Gumior’ll know where Mazura is if anyone does.” She stepped into a building, Emila and Zaven following behind.

“Hullo!” she hollered. “Gumior!”

A person peeked their head around a door in the back of the room. “Sofia, goodness. You needn’t yell so,” they said, and though their voice was testy, they smiled.

“We’re looking for Mazura. These two came trotting down my road today, and—well, I’m sure you know how it goes.” She turned to them. “This is Gumior, dears. They’re a grump but pay them no mind. Gumior, this is Emila, and Zaven.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Emila, politely.

“You want a bath, don’t you?” they said, looking at them intently. “Bet you’ve been bathing in streams, when you can.” They turned. “Sofia, Mazura should be over by the Carson’s place; she’s helping with their new cistern. Go fetch her and I’ll show these two to the baths. She can talk after they’re clean.”

Sofia nodded, and trotted off. Gumior walked out the door, and looked at them expectantly. “Come along, then.”

They followed Gumior a short distance down the street to a building decorated even more ornately than the others. Gumior took them inside, and showed them where towels were, and soap, and how to turn the taps so that hot water flowed into the stone baths that lined the walls; this was the greatest wonder of all. Even the Lords didn’t have water, hot water that flowed from the walls. Zaven whispered to Emila, “See, there must be demons,” and though he was quiet, Gumior heard and laughed, a great booming laugh.

“No demons, I’m afraid. Just some fancy engineering. The sun heats water we keep in great tanks on the roof. No brimstone in this bath.” They guffawed. “The tales people tell. No, child, Mazura and I are as close to demons as you’ll find hereabouts, and we’re flesh and bone enough. You’ll see a little magic, here, but we tend to keep it for things that can’t be done in the ordinary way. Now, I’ll leave you two here to clean, and see if I can’t fetch some clothes as might fit you, though I expect anything clean will suit.”

For all their travel dust, they bathed and dressed quickly.

“What do you think they meant, Emila, by magic?”

She shrugged. “I expect we’ll find out in time. Come, let’s meet this Mazura of theirs.” The siblings walked out into the bright afternoon where a tall woman stood, garbed in greens and blues and copper. She turned towards them, smiling, her hair haloed by the sun.

“Welcome to Solistra, friends. Welcome home.”

[peilinsirpale]

We've got it good here

For the @solarpunkstoryexchange Prompt: solarpunk in SPACE (in space colonies, in deep space)

Author notes: I got really excited about the prompt, but fell a bit short due to not being able to work out a plot or time to write. Because of these reasons, this has been mostly left on the brainstorming stage - It starts with a bit of a story and changes into brainstorming bullet points, which span about 3 generations (or more) of people living in the place. I hope you enjoy reading it!

A couple wants a kid. Or, to be more precise, a lesbian couple on the Mars colony decides they want to try getting a kid. Their friends and local colleagues agree to the plan. The Mars colony is a close-knit community, and they collectively decide that they will love and support the kid, whatever they are like. Whether they are rowdy or quiet. Whether they’re scientific or artistic. Whatever gender they are. Whether they're disabled or not.

The earth control doesn't like the idea, but they can't control what the Martians do, only do their best to adapt and help.

The first try- no. Second - another loss. Every pregnancy is keeping the whole Mars base at their toes. Constant checkups. Mental wellbeing regulated as well as physical health. The possibly pregnant woman is given less intense work and sports. She isn't allowed out of the areas with best radiation screening. She does still work, she has to, but she also spends a lot of time studying various things. Stuff about pregnancy, about children, but also music and literature and other kinds of arts. About all kinds of problems that may arise, but also about how to best take care of a child in general.

Her wife does a lot of studying, too, just as everyone else on the base. But she also takes the extra time to be with her pregnant partner. In all honesty, so does everyone. In some way, the child will be all of theirs. While in some way, they will be a child of all of humanity.

When the pregnancy doesn't end near the beginning, and then continues well for months, they are hopeful. And when a baby is born, after several years of trying, the Mars base celebrates. And far away, people on Earth celebrate the first human born off-planet.

As a small kid, the Mars-born child is unaware of their celebrity status on Earth. They will learn what it means, but not yet.

Brainstorming:

"what do you mean i can’t have a hydroponics in my room"

Mars!!

Planting plantsies; Bacterial protein; Critters?

"Is this something I can plant in? What if I add compost?" "Hey can we do smth of this plastic? Melt it? Sun? New packages?" Wind power in Mars?

"Uh-huh wanna be the dad of my kid?" "I'm gay" "It is dangerous™ but I want a kid let’s do it" "Ur their dad but also godfather"

Aka a lesbian couple and a gay guy decide to get kids. The kid lives with lesbians but dad is integrated in life and lives in the neighbourhood

How is it solarpunk? Do they decide to do it or something else despite being prohibited?

Closed loop system

Growing culturally significant stuff even though it’s inefficient - Doing, too

Everything that can be recycled, is recycled

Outside soil made usable via mixing with compost and growing stuff that can extract nutritients from it

3d printing

What plot? Everyday life plot?

Is there a lot of scarcity?

Do they have their own internet places? Earth internet connection, but slow? Friends at earth or other space colonies???

What if someone wants to move there? Exchange student? Could someone from earth be?

Friend with the aforementioned Mars-born kid? A science enthusiast - space kid more of an art person

Jump jump!! Very popular and also healthy. Climbing too!

Exchange students bring lots of Earth stuff with them. Some personal items, but mostly small things. For all, some spices not grown on mars, and other stuff they may need/ want / have requested.

Exchange students/new residents, how many? Five or ten? An nb person too!

Had lots of stuff to digitally read when on long travel. Travel is tiring and they ate mostly packed food bc it’s easy in zero-gravity (but also fresh vegetables that grow fast, and stuff grown in poo made compost - or is it just collected for use in mars? Probs. Other grown veggies)

Getting to know each other on the flight, also gotten to know each other on the before-launch stuff. One had to drop out at the last minute due to health problems :(

When on mars: “whoa there’s gravity!! How do I get used to this again??”

People of different professions. Some doctor, some scientist, some engineer, some person person like psychologist or smth

People exercise but also do crafts. Lots of 3d-printed stuff. Games!! Also on space flight! Full body sport games! Brain games! Very regular favorite games!

Lots of lag on online stuff though :( But lesser quality = ok and faster

Gardeners!!

So much focus on learning. And everyone got to do something, whatever they can. Even if they’d rather do art? Are ppl forced to exercise? Ableism what? How much is there of it?

Growing lights and lamps. Some, in living areas, syntethise daylight and night, some, in agricultural areas, are continuously on

Mostly plants that are small but wield lots of fast food, but some less fast food for special treats (like fruits from small pruned “bonsai trees")

A large open hall for sports, including stuff like soccer, tennis, and various team sports

At first the place is very small. It grows. The amount of ppl grows from less than 10 to more than 30. When the exchange students come, more than 50 - maybe around 70?

Someone rich gets there with their money? But is made to learn to do work and use the money not for themself but for the community. Is taught social and coworking skills etc.

Most people: problem? Research!

Several do digital art to some degree - or blog! Blog a lot. Or tweet or such. Videos! Of what life on Mars is like. Everyone must be aware that the public is interested.

Most time is spent in public areas. Work is often done in small groups. All specialised in something, but can do basics in everything.

Solar panels! Lots! On top of where the hub is underground.

Marswalks done rarely, and remote-controlled robots are used a lot. Robo bees! Roombas! Farming robots!

“Exchange students" the first few with not much previous experience. A bit less that 200 into tests, then maybe a hundred into further ed and evaluation, then a few dozen into training. Finally, about 10 best chosen. This way, younger people. Around 25 to 30 when to Mars. With a few more qualified people.

Biologists manage gardens. Engineers manage repairing and building new and 3d-printers.  Doctors manage health. Chemists manage various stuff. Earth can always tell info and such when needed.

Downloaded books, online searches and videos though slow-ish to load. Calls and video conferences. New clothes from hemp grown on Mars!

Induction stove. Lots of food made by once. Stable food: beans? Sugar from where? GMO is used a lot. Sugar beets? Lots of new seeds brought every time something arrives - about every 2.5 years or longer. Good thing: no/few pests. Not many animals, possibly rats?

Most walls filled with stuff, esp. in older areas. Everyone owns not too many clothes. Maybe up to 5 outfits. Every time stuff is brought, they can wish for some. Not much though. A lot is 3d-printed on-site. Few personal belongings - most is co-owned. Works when there are few people and everyone knows everyone.

Baby gets clothes, most made of stuff grown on mars. Cutting made so it doesn’t trash fabric. Clothes are mended because making new takes a lot of resources. Kids’ clothes made a few sizes too big or so they can be easily expanded when they grow.

When exchange students come, there are a few kids. Maybe 3 who were born on Mars.

Kids are familiarized with work on Mars. Curriculum specialised for life on Mars. Made in unison with teaching experts on earth. No rigid school days, but a lot of learning. To work with the adults, though with an extra person to make sure they don’t mess things up.

A lot is automated. Taking care of the automated stuff is important.

Kids are not let into older parts. There are lots of things they may accidentally pull, and worse radiation filtering. They have some toys, 3d-printed. A few plushies, part or mostly made of extra fabric scraps

Space travel done in sleeping bags, they keep them when they come to mars.

Phones/laptops/equivalent for all. VR for games and learning! AR glasses?

Jewelry? Someone likes making it. Clothes, too - and customising! Recipes have to be fitted for Mars. Some people love trying them out.

Kid has a bit bad eyesight.

Main languages English & Russian

When did ppl first decide to *stay*? And not just spend a few weeks/months/years? “Hello we're looking for people willing to live on Mars" or “Hello we’re not leaving" ?

Mars colony grows. Also “Hey we’ve lived here for ages and I like my home planet I want to be independent"

There have been a few generations. Maybe this is the third gen. Someone child of one of the first marsborns. Is older - in 20s or 30s or smth

There is a growing community. Mostly scientists. But maybe a few other professions there too

Someone gets to make food! Communal eating almost daily or more - lunch or dinner? Dinner probably. Lunch often in work groups

Cultural feasts and celebrations are shared if applicable. Seasonings are valuable

Lots is made in laboratory. Even food like meat, but mostly medications etc.

People have to do some work and learn new stuff as long as they can. However most get significant osteoporosis when older. Eyesight loss is another difficulty, but there is an optical station that can make glasses. Things also start being adjusted for use with reduced eyesight.

Should it be somewhere else than Mars?

Over the years, parts of the base are adjusted to become as natural as possible, introducing new species into their ecosystem. Main agricultural areas are kept hydroponics, and some get turned into aquaponics systems (=includes fish, which also can occasionally be used as food)

Settlement at around equator or at middle to pole, on a flat area

Room- or apartment-like parts connected to each other by hallways. Old parts and newer parts. 1 floor and sometimes 2 OR MORE!!Like a department store!! Especially some housing areas. Or like a cruise ship with a “promenade" and rooms with windows there? Elevators?

Climbing is loved and easy because of the lower gravity, but it needs to be made safe because breaking a bone is very not good.

[solarpunkstoryexchange]

Bookkeeping

The 2018 exchange is nearly wrapped up! Exchange stories have been collected here, and in a google drive folder for easy perusal off tumblr.

For those of you who haven’t gotten a prompt filled and wrote a story for the exchange, myself and some lovely volunteers are working on getting those stories written, and those will be posted as soon as we can. 

@ryttu3k suggested we post the prompts received in the exchange, as inspiration for anyone. I think that’s a wonderful idea, as we got many wonderful prompts in! I’ll be posting prompts over the next week. If you get inspired, @ solarpunkstoryexchange so I can share what you made! 

Similarly, if you have any solarpunk stories you would like me to share, prompted or otherwise, please @ solarpunkstoryexchange. 

[solarpunkstoryexchange]

Prompt #40

A new plague starts to sweep the land, turning green cities to grey and decimating the environmental society.