The seasons began subscribing to magazines, took quizzes, giggled at the results and changed overnight.

Winter had globally-warmed its way out of long hair, flannels, fraying jeans and rock t-shirts and into fun, colorful, androgynous Springtime hand-me-downs. Even though they didn’t quite fit Winter’s new form, it strutted like they did. Said, “Fuck ya’lls cold fronts,” and displayed some skin.

This affected some. Reptilian brains burned out of control in the new sun. Organs throbbed, super-injected with Vitamin D. Fantasy topped reality. Some took to fornicating on lawns. Neighbors gathered and watched. Some joined. Some preferred the touch of their own hand. Nobody thought about consequences. Only city trucks could break it up, sent out to cordon off and hose down the area of spilled seed.

On and on it went.

Still some grew sad. Buried themselves inside their homes, turned up air conditioners, cried at holiday commercials and watched old videos of inclement weather on the Weather Channel like nostalgia porn.

Commercials for holiday adventures to Antarctica began to air. Some of the severely depressed took the bait and packed their things. They boarded planes to Chile, transferred to icebreakers converted to cruise ships and set out for the ice cap. There, they would live in bed and breakfasts run by scientists.
A flock of starving sea gulls followed from port, southward, until the ship’s crew shot nets out of converted T-shirt cannons and clubbed the night’s main course to death out of the view of passengers.

Their ship continued to skip waves like a gleeful child, ignorant of death, one wave the same as the last.

On and on it went.

Questions only arose when a few days on the open seas turned into a week, turned into weeks. The ship skipped the waves less enthusiastically. People’s hopes for cold began to slip overboard at night. People huddled around the captain’s aging volume of Encyclopedia Britannica, finding comfort in the cold, sharp vowels in the descriptions of icebergs and penguins.

All the while the Earth felt alive, new, flirted with yet another distant body, altering its tilt alluringly, as the onboard compass of the Antarctica-bound ship swam laps in its glass case, only acidic wave after acidic wave rushing up over the horizon to meet its hull.

Ron Gibson, Jr.

Ron Gibson, Jr.

Ron Gibson, Jr. has previously appeared in Stockholm Review of Literature, Cheap Pop, New South Journal, Jellyfish Review, Whiskeypaper, The Bohemyth, Easy Street, Noble / Gas Quarterly, Harpoon Review, Spelk Fiction, Entropy Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, etc.
Ron Gibson, Jr.

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