I flew in another rescue mission; half the city remained submerged – the water hadn’t receded.

Those dire predictions of global warming didn’t preclude half of the Artic ice shield melting in three summer/winter ice cycle. Hell – there had been no winter in the (un)frozen north.

I’d flown disbelieving politicians and pundits over the dwindling ice, polar bear carcasses, and the Innu, Inuit and other Aboriginal peoples of the Artic Circle trekking South.

The unsalty sea now inhospitable to sea creatures, their bodies washing up on northern to southern shores. Food for some; all I remember is the stench.

Cautionary tale written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers 7. 12. 16. The image is by her friend since kindergarten: Lucy Fridkin 

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