A Californian deals with the effects of climate change on her literal doorstep, in this short story by Joy Lanzendorfer
By Joy Lanzendorfer for Flash Fridays by Tin House, part of the Guardian Books Network
Lindy’s yard was studded with containers of rainwater: buckets, trashcans, a red wagon, rubbery industrial barrels that once held Greek olive oil. Already, blossoms were budding on the nectarine tree. Winter in California is a brief affair. One day as Lindy was putting her kids in the car, she glanced at the wheelbarrow half-filled with water. It was glassy, and the part of her brain that noticed inconsistencies told her to move the water to the rain barrel before it stagnated. The sun beat on her hoodie, and she wished, as she got into the SUV, that she wasn’t wearing a long-sleeved shirt. She forgot about the water as she drove onto the highway.
The hills hadn’t turned at all and time seemed frozen in perpetual summer
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