Wall
Waves crash, thrusting the debris of civilisation against the sea wall. Planks of wood, rusting sheets of corrugated iron almost buried by the masses of plastic detritus that float on the surface. Despite the dusk hour, the air is still hot and sticky with humidity. It always is now. But the onshore breeze makes it tolerable enough for an evening stroll.
“Do you know the story of the wall?” my companion asks.
I shake my head.
“When I was younger there were many climate change deniers in society, people who vociferously refused to believe that our actions were heating up the planet. They caused a lot of trouble for those of us who knew better, tried to thwart our every action.”
“So we made them a deal. We sold them our coastal property, under the condition that they could only on-sell it to other deniers. They thought they got it better. Prime waterfront property and sea views, after all. Then we build a wall to segregate them from us. We didn't tell them it was a barrier against them or the sea. No, we said it was to keep us out. Deniers tended to be a bigoted, racist bunch, they lapped it up.”
I stare out at the ocean, notice the eddies around hidden objects beneath the water.
“What did they do when the waters rose?” I ask.
“I don't know,” my companion admits, “By that time we had cut off all communication, sick of their attempts to poison the rest of society with their nonsense.”
“I guess we let them drown.”