28 Jan


buried in snow photo: Buried DSC01617.jpg
Here’s a jolly scenario.

The snow was piled against the bungalow, up its walls and meeting with the overhanging pristine white blanket that was slowly descending from the roof.

Inside, baby cried. Baby was cold. Baby was hungry. Baby was dying.

There was precious little the mother could do about things. There was no way out of the house, no way she could forced a passage through the tons of snow that lay like a morbid TOG 100 quilt across the world where she lived. There was no way she could get to the shops and no way those shops would be open anyway.

This was England in the middle of the twenty-first century, and the mother was desperate.

A mile away, in where he thought a lay-by might be if he remembered correctly because he couldn’t see anything in the white-out, the father sat and wept. He’d like to be able to get home, but couldn’t. He loved his wife and child, and anyway home would be warm and the car was cold. He’d burned the last of his fuel in order to keep warm and now he could only see one possible outcome.

He was going to die, sitting there in his car, with the biggest wall of snow he’d ever seen blocking his way in every direction and even resting like a multi-ton weight on the roof of his vehicle.

“They’ve talked about extreme weather, and here it is…” his brain told him. “I remember when we marvelled at three feet of snow, and now there must be thirty…”

It wasn’t quite that thick, but who was measuring?

At home, baby died.

Then at home, the mother died.

And at the same moment, in the car the father died, but first he switched the radio on just in case…

There was at least one station still broadcasting. A crackly station. Or was that the wild winter sneaking via the aerial to distort the sound?

On that radio three twerps in a studio that was still working were discussing the problem, using twerp language to try and deduce what had gone wrong.

“They should have fracked more,” insisted one. “They should have ignored the environmentalists … I mean, what do they know? Then we’d have the gas to keep people warm…”

“It’s the fracking that did it,” gloated another. “Burning all that gas… every cubic metre of gas burn is a cubic meter of carbon dioxide … the atmosphere became unstable … the weather changed … people are dying…”

“We should have gone nuclear,” smirked a third in his twerpy, complacent voice, “then we’d all be warm and the weather would have settled back to its old friendly ways.”

“But there were nuclear accidents,” chided the first. “There aren’t any fracking accidents worthy of the word “accident”…

“Very few and very far between,” sighed the third voice. “In fact, hardly any at all. Much safer than dying in the cold.”

“Everyone dies anyway,” concluded the second. “What does it matter anyway?”

But the mother and the baby and the father didn’t hear.

The dead can’t.

© Peter Rogerson 28.01.15


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