Solarpunk Story Exchange @solarpunkstoryexchange - Tumblr Blog

Can I post a link to a solarpunk story I've written on Reddit?

I'm not exactly sure what this is asking? But if you send me a link I'll share it

They walk tall and stilted in your forests, crouch small and leggy in our closets. They hum low in our subconscious, sway gently in your peripherals. They leave gifts for you that you believe to have been yours all along. The coins in your pockets you don’t remember putting there, the shiny paper clips at the bottom of your school bag, the little coloured beads in your carpet. None of them were in your house before last night. They watch over you for many reasons. Some watch to protect you, some watch to stave away their own dark thoughts, for some, their dark thoughts revolve around your bones and blood and flesh. They sing songs you never hear again. They grab notes from the sky and gather them up for you, letting you hum them when you aren’t thinking, letting them play over and over again in your head and smiling when you write words to go with them. They cry when you see what you have done to this place. Inky black tears stain your clothes when they listen to trees crash to the forest floor, see the billionaires laugh over your too-small wage, taste the river water filled with man’s poisons. That’s why you fear some of them. You can feel them directly behind your back when you’re running up the basement stairs, sense them just behind you when you walk in the woods at night, almost hear their snarls when you sit with your back to a dark room. They put a slice of their own sorrows under your pillow to strike sinking, oily despair in you when you jolt awake just before sleep. If you wake up at just the wrong time of night, you might even see one. Their eyes are the abyss and their claws sharper than sharp. Their legs are longer than highways at midnight and their teeth are many, like ants on roadkill, swarming and shifting and painful. You may not know it now, but it will not always be this way. It only takes a little while longer for them to take back this land. They were here before us, and will be here after us. And there is nothing to do. Your only options are to wait and watch them bring man to the ground as swiftly as we rose, or do something about it.

cassiopeia721

City of Supers

Again, for the @solarpunkstoryexchange. This one is a lot less polished than the other one, but I figure a rough bit of writing is better than no writing at all. Hopefully you guys still enjoy it!

prompt: What does a solarpunk superhero look like?

Before the Catalyst, Vernoa is a pretty forgettable place. Sure, it’s the capital city of its state, and well known within the region, but on a national scale, it is completely unknown. Then, one fall, all sorts of odd things begin to happen.

It starts slowly. Some citizens report tap water tinted an odd color, a strange smell in public swimming pools, a certain oily feeling on their skin when they shower. Nothing gets reported on the news, but stories spread. Cousins whose hair is slowly turning unnatural colors, cats whose irritated meows can be heard for miles around, toddlers whose fists won’t unlatch from their toys. The stories grow. Twenty somethings turning bottled water into beer, bar brawls with people who don’t seem to get hurt, cops trying to arrest criminals who disappear into thin air. The stories slowly float up from the underbelly to the mainstream. Now, there are street buskers who can make little spurts of flame dance across their fingertips, and cashiers who watch the entire shop without even looking up from their phones.

Most people only have new party tricks, like the ability to always win at darts, or to never get very drunk. (There are colorful skate parks where the tricks grew more exclusive with each passing day.) Most people don’t try to hone their skills. Some do, though. Crime explodes. Cat burglars who leave no heat signature, gang members who never miss a shot, con men who it’s impossible not to believe.

They finally start talking about it on TV. They call the criminals supervillains, and call for superheroes.

People rise to the challenge. Those twenty somethings start changing thin apartment walls into something out of thicker stuff, insulated and bulletproof. Those bar brawlers start stepping in front of targets, placidly taking hits. Those street buskers find ways to bottle flame, and pass them out to the homeless. Those cashiers start keeping watch over larger and larger areas. Party tricks became small blessings. Strange and vivid people met at brightly colored skate parks and talked about ways to help.

Here’s the thing, though. If you’ve lived a year or two in the world, you know money is a kind of a superpower- and gods don’t like being dragged back down to mortality. How to sell space heaters when some random neighbor already perfectly insulated everything? How to sell bulletproof vests when suddenly, commuters on the train are serving as personal bodyguards to anyone who needs it? How to sell security systems when some teenager popping pink bubblegum is doing the job better than you ever could?

Here’s the other thing, too. The angry people, the people who think the world has chewed them up and spat them out, the people who have a long list of people their TV says they should blame, they’re coming in, too. They’re drinking the water and finding their party tricks and throwing parties where everyone dies.

These young superheroes don’t care for that kind of party, of course. So they start keeping sharp eyes, they start standing up, they start speaking out. They start punching up.

The ones behind the camera at the news station, the CEOs of the big corporation, the ones in power, don’t like this. They say a lot of things on TV but the important things are what they think to themselves in the silence of their own heads. They are thinking to themselves, if all of those kids with powers did that to those neo-nazis… what would they do if they found out about that time I wore the white hood for a yearbook photo? If those kids with powers are so angry about the anti-lgbt supervillains, what will they think if they remember all of my old laws? What about me?

And here’s the killing blow. Most of these supers are young people. Sure, there’s the occasional grandmother who now can holds long conversations with her cat, and the dad here and there who no longer needs a grill to make his bbq, but the general range seems to be around ten to thirty. (Let’s be honest. They were doomed from the start.)

So they find a photogenic cop and build him into a superhero they like. They sponsor him and point him at the obvious, uncontroversial bad guys. On the TV, they slam the originals as supervillains. That suit is too tight, the token barbies cluck as they shake their heads. Not tight enough, the snake oil pundits insinuate into the ears of their radio talk show listeners. That rainbow cape isn’t appropriate for children, they whisper in fear. Hijab, mohawk, afro, all inappropriate for a superhero, they admonish. Obviously the right way to handle hair is just buzz it off, military style- but not for women! Women need long, loose, flowing hair- and who cares that that’s obviously a safety hazard? It’s not like female supers are real heroes anyway.

They build up their superhero into something legendary. Agent America, they call him. His nemesis is Doctor Rapid Spectacle. Clearly, his propensity for gigantic, genetically modified animals is more important than the rabid gangs of Neo Nazis prowling through the underworld of Vernoa. In the skate park that’s become an informal meeting place for the original superheroes, they speculate that Doctor Rapid Spectacle’s brilliant pink lab coat and boyfriend might have something to do with it.

The night that Agent America finally arrests Doctor Rapid Spectacle, the skate park is hosting a potluck supper. Mason jars holding endlessly burning flames serves as lights. School teachers, bus drivers, homeless people, supers and their families, all mingle. A new neighbor, Quinn Jackson, is being introduced to everyone in the neighborhood. They meet Super Dad, who cooked most of the bbq for the potluck, and Granny, who offers to translate between them and their cat if they ask politely. They shyly wave hello to All Sight Girl, who’s still chewing some pink bubblegum even as she fills her plate, and shake the hand of The Wall. They’re a little overwhelmed by everything- by the brightly colored hair, by the powers, by how everyone seems to want to talk to them. It’s a good overwhelmed feeling, though.

They end up at a table with All Sight Girl, and her girlfriend. All Sight Girl and her girlfriend, the Black Hole, seem to be almost complete opposites. All Sight Girl’s long, straight black hair is pulled back into a neat, flat bun. The Black Hole’s hair, on the other hand, is in a mohawk. All Sight Girl is calm and collected, with an underlying confidence that imbues everything she does with an undeniable element of cool. The Black Hole is anxious and jittery, and always talking. Somehow, though, they work together perfectly.

Quinn watches in awe as The Black Hole eats her plate of food, and then the plate of food itself. She can metabolize almost anything, she explains to Quinn. Most of her diet is trash that would otherwise end up in the landfill, but she still enjoys the flavors of regular food. Quinn is about to ask what plastic tastes like when All Sight Girl suddenly says, “Doctor Rapid Spectacle just got arrested.”

Everyone hurries to pull out their phones and pull up Vernoa News’ livestream.

“-cut to Jim, who’s speaking to Agent America right now.” Agent America fills their screens, resplendent in red, white and blue.

Before the new neighbor moved to Vernoa, they had as much idol worship for Agent America as anyone. But compared to the supers around them, Agent America looks plastic-y and fake.

“So, sir, what will be happening to Doctor Rapid Spectacle’s infamous living tower?” Jim was asking excitedly.

Agent America chuckled, sounding just a bit too perfect to be real. “Well, Doctor Rapid Spectacle made what my lawyers assure me is a perfectly legally binding statement that says whoever can get past the Spectatowers’ defenses will become its owne-”

“How are you planning to address climate change, Agent America?” Someone hollers from off-camera. “What about the Nazis? Or the-” The hollering is abruptly cut off.

The company logo on his chest expands as he takes a deep breath, and continues what he was saying.

“I wonder what Agent America’ll use that tower for,” All Seeing Girl says.

“Probably split it up between his sponsers,” The Black Hole replies sourly. “Think of what we could do with it…”

“A cat shelter,” Granny suggests eagerly.

“A human shelter,” The Wall offers, to wide agreement.

“A plant shelter,” The Botaniac says, then realizes how strange that sounds, and clarifies, “A community garden, I mean.”

“I bet you guys could get through the defenses,” the new neighbor says shyly.

“I don’t know,” says, “Doctor Rapid Spectacle is really smart…”

“It can’t hurt to give it a try,” Super Dad puts in firmly.

They quickly descend into chaotic chatter. Quinn listens, hiding their smile. Quinn has no doubt that the next potluck will be in the tower.

Later, as they roast marshmallows over the mason jar fires, Quinn reflects that it’s not the powers that makes Vernoa the City of Supers. It’s the people.

peilinsirpale

My piece for @solarpunkstoryexchange , a poem for the prompt “The feeling of cautious hope.“ I was also inspired by Greta Thunberg and the way she has spoken about something I call “apathetic hope vs active hope”. The first one leads to a false sense of security, while the latter inspires to act. The latter is what we need to find more of, and what I think solarpunk is about.

”Once we start to act, hope is everywhere.”

In the clack of metal and the crash of glass when they fall to the recycling

in the chants of the young in the streets and at the steps of the parliament

in the reflection of light from windmills standing in the fields

in the native herbs under solar panels and the sheep grazing it low

in the lines being drawn to give ships power from the harbor grid

in the trains that go farther than planes and faster than cars

in the flowering trees in the parks around the city

in the lush urban garden boxes at the side of the road

in the snowy winter nights with geothermal heating instead of oil

in the summer days when the water is warm from the sun

in the new plant based foods popping up in the stores

in the vegetarian school lunches tasty and well made

in the seams of a dress mended to last and last

in the first leaves of potential food from rescued seeds

in the trees that get turned into houses and packages and more

in the trees that are let grow and get old

in the trees that are let die and rot

to house a fungus and a critter or ten.

”Once we start to act, hope is everywhere.”

solarpunkstoryexchange

Prompt from @tea---leaves !

#sse2019

cassiopeia721

Cycles

For the @solarpunkstoryexchange

Prompt: Fae ecoterrorists

In the wild old places, the shadows are lusher and deeper than the blackest black. The sunlight falls softly, clear and silky. A human would find the sunlight there better for drinking than white wine, and the sparkling studs of dew more remarkable than the finest cut gem. A human would say the forest is like nature shaped into a strange, gilded kingdom. Those who live within the forest- the Gentry, a human might say- would not compare the sunlight there to wine, or the dew to jewelry, for they have no need of such things. The Gentry do not ask that humans give, only refrain from taking.

The ways of the forest are strange to humans, and the ways of humans are strange to the Gentry. Taxes and rent matter as much to the Gentry as the current phase of the moon or the alignment of the stars matters to your average city dweller. If there is one thing both humans and the Gentry agree on, it is the inviolability of certain laws governing the universe; but the two groups would do not agree which laws are able to bend, and which laws are immutable. Humans worry over bending space, and time, and probability. The Gentry worry over tipping the balance; the balance of airs which make up the sky and earths that make up the ground, the balance of the cycles of life and death, heat and cold, rain and dry. The Gentry fold and stretch space and time, and in the forest, a thousand impossible things happen before breakfast. Humans siphon air from the sky and earth from the ground, swing the cycles to gather rain or bathe in heat as they please. At the sight of the other, both shudder and wonder what cracks are gather in the foundations of life.

And so, humanity and the Gentry go their own ways, each trying to put from their minds those spreading cracks. Humanity is far better at forgetting; their minds are nimble and swift, hopping from one thing to another. The minds of the Gentry are as layered as an onion and as deep and full as an ocean, and few things escape them, no matter how they wish they might.

Humanity builds their cities. Their lifeblood is the black asphalt which both connects them and divides them. They draw in smoke through painted lips and huff it out the back of their metal beasts of burden. They gather stars from the sky and bind them in neon and hang them above the places black asphalt intersects.

The Gentry grow their wild places. Their lifeblood is the running water which both connects them and divides them. They drink the water through their reaching roots and let it out high into the blue sky. They read the stories the stars tell and serenade them with warbling songs.

But there is not balance. Humanity’s lifeblood spreads and spreads, dark veins twisting across the earth. Humans blacken their lungs with smoke and the lacquer they paint themselves with aches with poison. Their metal beasts of burden grow savage and greedy. The sky is stripped bare and humans blind their eyes with neon.

The cycles spin wildly away. The sky chokes in smoke and the earth drowns in black-blood asphalt. The young die like seedlings never bursting past the soil and the old ideas linger long past when they should have died. Summer freezes in snow and winter burns in flames. Droughts starve and floods consume.

The wild places suffer. Their banks crumble and their trees wither as their lifeblood floods, then dries away to nothing, then floods again. The Gentry leave their children in human cities and turn away from the stars. Space and time grow stiff and impossible things are translucent when you hold them up against the too-hot sunlight.

And then. The humans poison the lifeblood of the wild places. They expel their salt-and-metal waste water, the byproduct of their all-consuming greed, into the the rivers of the wild places. The Gentry rot, burn, from within. They vomit up stardust and old earth and the wind carries them away. Those that survive gather all the slack in time and space, all the remaining impossibility, and go to war.

Ancient trees choke plastic pipelines. Stars escape their neon confines. Careful hands slowly sift through the earth and sky. It’s not enough. Men with sharpened iron axes come and cut the ancient trees down, haul the wood away to burn. The escaped stars are replaced with a thousand more. The earth is saturated with dark blood and the sky is more smoke than light, now.

In the cities and suburbs, where the dark smoke hangs close to the ground, seedlings shrug heavy dirt from their slender shoulders. The youth, humans and Gentry mixed, can see the tarnished inheritance that awaits them, the vintage ball and chain they’re told is the height of fashion. Their minds are nimble and layered. They have the power to tip cycles and do impossible things. And if their parents won’t give them the inheritance they deserve, they will take it by force.

They trace the asphalt lifeblood, find the source. A changeling binds her split eyes with contact lenses, her legs with pencil skirt, her feet with stilettos, and climbs a building so tall and reaching it scrapes the smoke-stained sky. She smiles with lacquered lips and shakes hands with a leech in human form. She asks for his name. He gives it to her. Her smile widens, and her lacquered lips shield her sharp teeth from view.

The cycles slowly begin to swing back into balance.

solarpunkstoryexchange

Prompts from @solarpunkwitchcraft !

#sse2019

solarpunkwitchcraft

max and the train

My story for @solarpunkstoryexchange hope you enjoy :)

Prompt: A woman explores the different solarpunk cities. What does she see?

The train circled the continents, stretching over oceans and plunging deep into the land. It was powered by the solar panels that graced the top and each of the colored windows, but no one knew exactly how it worked. No one knew where it had come from either. Most assumed it had just grown out of the ground, like the weeds that covered its walls.

When Max was eighteen and restless, she decided to ride the train to its end, trading her work for food and lodging. Her home city was beautiful but sleepy, all abandoned factories turned into interior gardens and trees that burst out from the cement sidewalks. She kissed her aunts and uncles good-bye and said a prayer at the entrance to the train, a small saint tucked into her coat pocket.

The first city she went to was the scavengers’ city. On the far end of the Wastelands, it was a teetering place, with long cotton tents between buildings made of multicolored bricks and melted plastic. Everything was color and nothing was shaped like anything else. Lining the streets were carts where scavengers bartered what they had found, out there in the Wastes. Plants grew out of metal cans traced with beautiful gold paint, clothes were patched and embroidered from a thousand different colors and materials, stained glass images of gods and saints and old stories that were made from cracked window frames and bits of old bottles. Max was looking at a clockwork bird made from various different colors of rusted metal when the small woman who manned the table leaned over.

“How do you find these things?” Max asked to make conversation.

“You have to listen to the objects,” the woman said. “Here their stories, hear what they want to become.”

Max exchanged a solar necklace from her hometown for the bird, which she placed on the brim of her hat.

Next, she travelled to the lush farmlands that had carved their ways out of old mines. There houses were perched underground or on the top of mossy mountains, connected with rope bridges. Max worked there for several weeks, feeling the soft soil underneath her fingers. Late at night, the members of the town would play folk songs so old no one knew the words any more and everyone danced, Max included. She fell in love with a farmer girl and they exchanged raspberry-scented letters before Max got back onto her train.

Farther south was the Ziggurat, a city on an island, surrounded by floating farm land. Flowers stretched up to the ever-present sun, their petals made of solar panels. Trolleys took Max around the adobe city, where she stayed in a local church and learned how to repair the great solar flowers. By the end of her time there, she was freckled-covered and understood how to navigate the web of trolleys.

At night, the city transformed, no longer lit by the sun. Instead, lamps of algae cast the street with a ghastly glow and people appeared transformed, their make up glowing in the moonlight. At night, the actors appeared, and the dancers, and the jugglers and they performed to midnight crowds, who clapped so long their hands hurt. The first few days, Max went out every night, in awe of the lights and the performers and the transformed city, but the locals told her to pace herself, to not become overly full of the Ziggurat’s wonders.

Another city lay on a farther south, on its own island, but the air there was thick with smoke, so much so that Max was given a mask on arrival. There were masks of every shape and design, all created by skilled artisans who had been creating masks for centuries. Some were in the shapes of smiling suns, other looked like the skulls of humans or bears or deer, some were comprised of multicolored glittering glass. All had glass compartments at the mouth and nose that were full of plants. These filtered the air so it was breathable. Max chose a mask that looked as if it had been carved of oak, leaves spilling out the top like a crown.

“Why,” she asked an artisan. “Do you stay here if the very air is poisoned?”

The artisan shrugged, held out too manicured hands. “It’s home,” he said. “You don’t leave home.”

And yet Max was doing exactly that, going from the city of poisoned air to a city that was only clockwork and which held all the books in the world, to a city that was criss-crossed with rivers and glittering with leaf-patterned steeples made of solar glass, to a city deep underwater, full of the aquatic descendants of the drowned, who would not let Max see beyond the city walls. She saw it all, dissolved herbs and tomatoes and seaweed on her tongue, breathed in these places and then left, pockets full of treasures, heart full of contentment and a longing so sharp it drowned out all the other flavors.

The last city she visited was a city that moved across the land like the train did, one that was comprised of old school buses and covered wagons and boats that ran on land. There, Max learned how to fix a biofuel engine and speak a tongue that was a mix of all others and when they asked her if she had a wanderer’s heart like they did, she stared at the train tracks above her and felt the rumble of the engine in her ribs.

solarpunkstoryexchange

Prompts from @radio-ramblings !

#sse2019

tea---leaves

POWER!

For the @solarpunkstoryexchange! Happy Earth Day!

His mother is the local historian, which according to the majority of Godric Village, is the most important job there is.

Keep reading

solarpunkstoryexchange

Prompts from @lucyindigobluest !

solarpunkandstainedglass

Old Sage and the Unbroken Chain

Solarpunk Story Exchange 2019! @solarpunkstoryexchange

Prompts: Older people in Solarpunk, Student Strikes, Solarpunk Travel

Happy Earth Day! This is year two of this excellent writing event and I’ve enjoyed it so much! can’t wait to read the other stories!

The sky was empty above and echoed with the sounds of the plains. Across the horizon the dark shapes of their destination were laid out like seedlings in the dust. Old Sage felt the wind against her face and the warmth of the sun on her back. She looked at her people, wild eyed with the flight, and counted them in her head. All present and correct. She gave the signal and they moved off the hill, their crafts sweeping the dry grass as they once again built up speed.

They had been traveling now for twelve weeks, across the drylands that separated the coastal towns of the East and the wetlands to the West. The Oasis was the biggest settlement there, and the only one that remained year round. It had become a trading centre and the most popular stop for travelers trying to cross the dry grasses. It was a beautiful sight - the grass surrounding it was lush and green, with covered trellises dripping in vines connecting each of the low buildings. The place was built over a fresh spring, the water carefully cultivated in underground springs that kept their surrounding crops nourished. But more than that, the Oasis had developed the springs further out into the grasses, so that in a beautiful circle around it the wildlife could thrive as it had once done, thanks to the man made rivers and pools that were all fed by the deep spring at the centre. From above it looked like a bright green circle, surrounded by the sea of dry yellow grass for miles.

That morning though, as the weary group reached the green border, an unexpected sight greeted them. In a chain around the Oasis, right where the yellow grass met the green, was a long line of people, arms outstretched to each other, staring defiantly back into the land beyond. As the travelers got closer they could hear the sound of a chant being shouted by the group.

Old Sage leaped off her glider 50 meters from the lines and motioned for her people to follow. Pulling the now gently hovering crafts behind them on their tethers they slowly approached, waving a greeting and stopping again 10 meters away. Close up she saw with a faint shock that the people in the human chain were young - many couldn’t have been much past their teens and some looked even younger. Tired and wary eyes locked onto the travelers as they stopped their approach. From across the space Old Sage saw signs sticking out of the ground

Protect Our Land!

Our Future Matters

We Won’t Let You Make The Same Mistakes Again

Never Again

She felt her old bones ache and looked longingly at the buildings beyond, but some things went even deeper than bones. She anchored her crafts and lowered her body onto the grass next to it. Around her, her people followed her lead. She nodded to the teenagers and pulled out a flask of water. She might be tired and ready for a proper bed but she wasn’t about to cross a picket line.

The sun began to set and a pair of protesters came over to the group. The chain closed over the gap they left, keeping the line strong. Old Sage waved the pair over and greeted them.

“How long have you been out here?”

The older of the two, a short girl with her hair tightly braided in coils against her head, shrugged and replied.

“About three days now. I think they’re beginning to take it seriously, finally. You arriving will help, if you’re planning on staying out here.”

“Of course. We’ve got food and water to last a while, and if it takes longer we’ll move on without trade.”

The girl nodded, relief clear on her features. The teenagers headed back to the chain, where lanterns were being lit and placed on tall poles, illuminating the chain of protesters. Old Sage began to organise her people into a full camp, raising tents and creating spaces for cooking fires. Out here on the dry grasses you had to be careful with fire. One stray spark could cause devastation.

The next morning she was awoken by shouting. Looking out of her tent, she saw a group of men waving frantically at her camp from behind the line. She stood slowly, her muscles complaining as she stretched and climbed outside. She moved until she could see them clearly, older than the protesters, with anger and fear on their faces. In front of them the chain looked tense. She stood firm on her side and waited. The men gestured for her to come forward but she looked pointedly at the chain and stayed where she was. One of the men leaned forward and shouted over to her, asking her if she had been threatened, if she had come with stuff to trade. She recognised him from previous visits, a normally quiet man. His face was red that morning, the look of someone unexpectedly not getting what they want.

She turned and went back to her camp, where the rest of her gang were already putting together food for breakfast. She could hear the man shouting as she sat and accepted a bowl of food, and smiled as the man continued to shout. Maybe they wouldn’t need to wait too long after all.

The day stretched out and on the air she could hear a thrumming - something was coming in the distance. The protesters could feel it too, and looked afraid. Inside the ring the older people looked smug and Old Sage felt a low rage in her stomach. The protest hadn’t been there a week yet and already the leaders of the Oasis were escalating. From the far side she saw a mass of people on the horizon and realised that if they had come from the wetlands they must have started their journey days ago - and that meant that they had been called as soon as the protests had started. She glowered at the gloating men and stood. She called her gang to her and in a low voice laid out her new plan. Agreement was unanimous. They moved their camp and joined the chain.

The night was pierced with red light and panic. Old Sage could picture what had happened even as the jumbled news came to the chain. One of the enforcers had been careless - perhaps a poorly made fire, or a dropped match - afterall, in the wetlands they would not think of such things. Now a fire was growing and heading towards them. There was hardly any time to react. The gang raced around the chain, burning a ring of dead grass, suffocating the flames as soon as they had done their job. They reassured the chain and finally completed the circle, dry-eyed and coughing. The smoke in the distance was growing.

Soon the animals of the grasses came, more than could be believed. The dead plains weren’t really so dead - the wildlife adapted and hung on, in smaller and more hidden places. But that night they ran to the one place they could be safe - the Oasis. First came deer and wild cats and dogs, running past the burnt circle and into the chain where they stopped away from the buildings, drinking water from the pools and streams in desperate gulps, each paying no mind to each other or the protesters. Then came the smaller creatures - rodents, insects, birds - streaming in between the legs of the teenagers and finding places to rest in the lush green grass beyond. The chain was now a mass of living things resting under the night sky. Beyond it all, the wildfire grew.

The enforcers came last, an army of armed people now afraid and tired and ashamed of what they had done. They did not attempt to break the chain that night but accepted water and joined Old Sage’s people in the camp outside the chain, safely within the burnt circle.

The fire was ash by mid morning. The animals stayed where they were and soon other people in the Oasis, scientists and researchers, were out in the grass making notes and finding animals they had thought were long dead. The leaders waited beyond them for their army to finally break the protesters. But the animals covered the grasses and to march on the Oasis would be to march on them. The scientists joined the chain and the people of the Wetlands were uncertain.

The Oasis waited with held breath on its leaders. Anger was rising at the damage they had already caused. As the sun set, they relented.

The stars came out above and Old Sage could finally put her feet in the lush grass of the Oasis. A grasshopper sat on her sleeve and she smiled. Tomorrow her gang would go with the wetland people together and complete their journey. Tonight they would trade their wares and celebrate. The grasses would grow again and the Oasis would be a more equal place.

She felt the wind in her hair and its coolness on her skin. For now, all was well.

solarpunkstoryexchange

Prompts from @peilinsirpale !

#sse2019

Reminder: 10 Days!

until Earth Day and exchange stories start posting!🌿

Prompts have been sent out!

If you signed up for the exchange and did not recieve an email with your prompts please let me know.

Happy Writing!

solarpunkstoryexchange

2019 Solarpunk Story Exchange

This is an exchange of short original fiction centered around a solarpunk theme.

Last year’s exchange was wonderful and I’m excited to see what you all create this year! Participants will contribute 4-6 solarpunky story prompts, and receive 4-6 prompts from somebody else to inspire a story. You can choose to fill only one prompt, combine several, or even fill all you receive. Stories will be posted April 22nd (Earth Day!). New this year, there is no minimum word count! Even a few hundred words of story is still more solarpunk for us all to enjoy :D

Rules: [xxx]

Sign-up (Deadline March 17th): [xxx]

Let’s write stories of hope and revolution!

coppersunshine

Deadline for sign-ups is today!

#catch me reblogging to the wrong blog #ANYWAY #if you're interested sign up sometime today!#we're already got a bunch of good prompts in!

solarpunkstoryexchange

2019 Solarpunk Story Exchange

This is an exchange of short original fiction centered around a solarpunk theme.

Rules: [xxx]

Sign-up (Deadline March 17th): [xxx]

Let’s write stories of hope and revolution!

#reminder!

2019 Solarpunk Story Exchange

This is an exchange of short original fiction centered around a solarpunk theme.

Rules: [xxx]

Sign-up (Deadline March 17th): [xxx]

Let’s write stories of hope and revolution!

#solarpunkstoryexchange #solarpunk #solarpunkexchange2019 #solarpunkwriting #solarpunkstories

Hi! I just found your blog and I've been looking for something like this ever since I learnt about Solarpunk. I've been writing a solarpunk fantasy and I pitched it in an online pitching contest where a lot of literary agents and editors liked it. I hope to get published some day and this blog is helping me with lots of solarpunk prompts. Keep it up! I turned my notifications on for your blog 😊😊

Hello anon! I’m glad you’ve been enjoying the blog and that it’s been useful for you! I’m always happy to hear about more solarpunk writers.

The blog’s been mostly on hiatus for the past couple months as I’ve been finishing up my degree at uni, but I hope to get things up and running again with more prompts after I graduate in a few weeks! I’m also planning on running another exchange in the spring, so keep an eye out for that.

#ask #Anonymous

solarpunkfashionweek

Solarpunk Fashion Week - Autumn Edition

October 8th to October 14th 2018

Solarpunk Fashion Week will return next month for a new week of solarpunk fashion! The theme of this week is going to be Autumn & Harvest, but contributions don’t have to follow the theme (you can e.g. get inspired by the season and weather that you have where you live).

As before, the main goal of the week is to inspire and showcase solarpunk-style fashion worn or created by the community. This can be outfits you wear, clothes or accessories you design or create, or even written thoughts on solarpunk fashion. Any kind of contribution is great!

The idea is to inspire people to create something new for the week, but there is no rule saying this blog couldn’t share things that have been made for something else. Therefore feel free to also send solarpunk fashion related things you’ve created before and would like to share with the community!

To get showcased, tag #solarpunkfashionweek and/or this blog @solarpunkfashionweek in your Tumblr post, or send you creation as a submission. You can also send your post via private messages to ensure that the mod sees it.

Note: As accessibility is an important aspect of solarpunk, please write a description of any images in your posts. This makes it possible for people using screenreaders to understand what the images contain.

A human is starting some food plots for their community; in the same area, a maintenance bot is repairing some old wind turbines. As their projects progress, the two become friends.

Prompt #51

#solarpunkprompts #Anonymous #accidentally deleted the ask whoops