I'm With the Bears: Short Stories from a Damaged Planet
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The size and severity of the global climate crisis is such that even the most committed environmentalists can drift into a state of denial. The award-winning writers collected here have made it their task to shake off this nagging disbelief, bringing the incomprehensible within our grasp and shaping an emotional response to mankind’s unwitting creation of a tough new planet. From T. C. Boyle’s account of early eco-activists, to Nathaniel Rich’s comic fantasy about a marine biologist haunted by his youth, and David Mitchell’s vision of a near future where oil sells for $800 a barrel—these ten provocative, occasionally chilling, sometimes satirical stories bring a human reality to disasters of inhuman proportions.
Royalties from the sale of I’m with the Bears will go to 350.org, an international grassroots movement working to reduce the amount of CO2 in the atmosphere.
in basic first aid that stood him in good stead. His thighs stayed lightly scarred from the tree in the Monkey House, whose superficial but stinging cuts had proved slow to heal; his knees scabbed over from multiple abrasions he tended to reopen, and his right calf bore the purple marks of teeth from a young Morelet’s crocodile. It had been a fairly fortunate encounter in fact—the baby crocodile had let go almost right away, allowing him to drag himself out of its pen sheepishly, hurting but
inner wall of the slot was a sheer cliff and out of the question. The class 3 route appeared to require downclimbing a stack of huge boulders topping the outer wall of the slot. No one was happy at the prospect of getting down the outer wall’s boulder stack. With backpacks or without, it was very exposed. Charlie wanted to be happy with it, but he wasn’t. Troy had come up it once, or so he said, but going up was generally easier than going down. Maybe Troy could now downclimb it; and presumably
like this. I’ve been doing my research, and from what I can make out, London was a pretty swinging town back then, give or take the odd sprinkling of TNT. If you weren’t bombed out by Hitler, you were bombed out on benzedrine. Dark alleys were full of courting couples––home leave squaddies and randy Land Girls up for the night. What we’re being forced to go through today by this bunch of Tescommunists is the cleaned-up revisionist version. And it’s not as if the Walmarxists would do anything
I broke them all when I ran into an ultralight parked right in the middle of the main drag.” “Meth flyers?” “Beats the hell out of me. I didn’t stick around to ask.” “Shit. I’ll bet they were as surprised as you were.” “They almost killed me.” “I guess they didn’t.” Lolo shakes his head and swears again, this time without anger. Despite the ambush, he’s happy to run into Travis. It’s lonely country, and Lolo’s been out long enough to notice the silence of talking to Maggie. They trade
Lolo.” Lolo frowns. “But a tamarisk is still a tamarisk. Why should one of those damn plants get the water? If I knock out a tamarisk, even if Cali doesn’t want the water, I could still take it. Lots of people could use the water.” Hale looks pityingly at Lolo. “We don’t make the regulations, we just enforce them. I’m supposed to tell you that your head-gate won’t get opened next year. If you keep hunting tamarisk, it won’t do any good.” He looks around the patch, then shrugs. “Anyway, in