The Pirates are in charge, running the ship onto jagged rocks, while we fold laundry, plant carrots, work, and pay the gas bill. Two separate realities, yet we can feel in our bones that things are breaking down rapidly. What to do?

Some are staying angry, protesting, calling, boycotting the overlords. Glued to the news. Some are oblivious or too busy with surviving, or exhausted, numbing out. Some creatives are joyfully making art, building community and resilience, and stories of a better future. Some of us do all three, or try to.

The Thrutopia Project is here to engage our imaginations, telling stories of a better future that we would be proud to leave behind to our Seventh Generations. Engaging imagination and play is the remedy for despair and burn out, as Lisa Richardson so beautifully writes. How to do it? Ray Bradbury has some advice.

Seeking outlets for love and rage

By Lisa Richardson

I interviewed mountain biker Casey Brown fourteen years ago, and have never forgotten the thing she shared, that her dad taught her, that powered her racing. When you ride, he advised, “Put all your love and hate into it.”

The thing that struck me in this Wise-Dad-Counsel was the baseline acknowledgement to his daughter, that: of course you have hate or rage. Don’t bury it. Don’t deny it. Don’t try and make it go away. Channel that, alongside your love. Don’t wait until it wears off before you do your thing. It can all be your fuel.

We are living in rage-making times. Bewildering, heart-breaking, worrying. I won’t give you the litany of proof points - before I get to the end of the list, we’ll all have to crawl back into bed, pull the covers up over our heads, and revert to doing whatever it is we do to numb out and stop feeling at all. But what if we stay with the feelings… not let any particular one get stuck, but allow them, even greet them, with varying degrees of warmth or cool courtesy, as you do when you’re moving through the world encountering humans you variously love and loathe.

Ray Bradbury wrote Fahrenheit 451 in 1953 while living through the McCarthy-era “Red Scare” during which a small venal man witch-hunted artists, intellectuals and thinkers who didn’t toe the party line. Bradbury wrote on a typewriter you could rent by the hour in a local library. The novel is set in a dystopic near future where books are burned to maintain the “intellectual peace” that comes when no-one thinks anything other than what the government wants them to think, what’s being broadcast to them through their screens.

I’ve been thinking a lot about creative work and resistance, lately. Resistance, in the way Steven Pressfield talks of it, is like magnetic repulsion, a kind of creative block, that stumps and silences you, and keeps you from sitting down to the blank page/canvas/starting block. If you don’t turn to consider it, (“hello Newman”), it can shut you down. But if you track it, notice it, identify it, it becomes data, a kind of signpost, that alerts you to the fact that something important is happening, that something matters to you. That a force field is at work. And you somehow need to flip the magnets so you can get closer to this thing that is exerting such a charge on you.

Resistance, too, means defying an oppressive, powerful and unjust regime, even when the balance of might is against you. Creative work matters here too. Resistance, in the way Rebecca Solnit speaks of it, is about coming together, refusing to be divided, conquered, overwhelmed, or beaten before you get out the gate. She told the New York Times recently, “I think the counter to Trump always has been and always will be civil society. Maybe changing the world is more like caregiving than it is like war. Too many people still expect it to look like war.”

War, or resistance that actively and forcefully pushes back, in any contest of domination, adds power to the strong man, it gives the bully permission to double down, roll out tanks, level up the violence that somehow fuels him even more. The best and most inspiring responses to the crazy things happening in the world right now, for those of us who don’t have economies or armies at our command, have been the creative and care-rich ones… the deep winter street corner singing circles, light shows projected on walls. The poetry folded into Ukrainian first aid kits. Packed out poetry readings in bomb shelters. The humanity. The dignity. The care. The gestures of people resisting the urge to get under the covers and not come back out.

One of the best things my dire social media feed served up in the last month was a story of women who were out on the streets during anti ICE neighbourhood protests in Minnesota, offering people cups of tea. “You look cold, have a cup of tea.” They even offered tea to agents in uniform, successfully de-escalating moments that could have gone sideways fast. At least, that’s what it has become in my mind… a scene in which a teapot becomes the vessel for transmuting all our love and rage into something more civil, something we can actually recover from.

In other words, our community culture is our resilience. The ways we channel and express our love and rage, in and among each other, matters. So, make your art a vessel like a small rubber raft for the sorrows you amass. Make your art your medicine, your herbal apothecary, your physic garden. Make your art through thick or thin. Make your art no matter what, no matter what size it is, no matter how insignificant it feels. Put all your love and hate into it. Let it have it all.

This article was original published in Pique Magazine in March, 2026.

Lisa Richardson is an alumni of the original Thrutopian Writing Masterclass program, and a freelance writer raised in Australia and now based on Canada’s west coast, near Pemberton, on the traditional territories of the Lil’wat Nation. A newspaper columnist and founder of a Secret Poetry Appreciation Society in her community, her writing, speaking and creative workshops are propelled by the idea that attention, imagination and community are where resilience and future flourishing is at. She is currently taking an invented degree in creative play at the Midlife School of Magic, a made-up institution offering life craft pathways for people interested in emergent possibilities. https://lisarichardsonbylines.com/

A view of Earth taken by an Artemis II crew member through the window of the Orion spacecraft, April 4, 2026. Photo by NASA/Handout via Reuters

WELCOME TO THRUTOPIA recently celebrated its first anniversary. The project was born from our shared belief that literature is a critical resource as we try to navigate our way through a period of existential crises.

Sharing these works is our way to build a community of dreamers, creators, changemakers, and world builders. We appreciate everyone who has taken the time to read and subscribe. We hope that our efforts have inspired others to create and share their work.

The project has been a major source of inspiration for those of us involved. Sometimes, that inspiration is as simple as the energy that comes from being in community with like-minded souls. Other times it is much more concrete, as this month’s post demonstrates.

It’s my pleasure to share two pieces, the first an essay, the second a poem inspired by that essay, from two of the creators who have worked hard to sustain Welcome to Thrutopia.

Enjoy

Joe Tankersley

Homicide

By Elisa Rathje

what if we regarded insecticide, herbicide, pesticide through the ethical lens we apply to homicide? everything we need to know is in the name. in a moment when biodiversity loss is as much an existential threat as its flashier cousin, carbon emissions, part of our paradigm shift into a life-affirming, reciprocal, needs-based economy and all that that affects throughout the biome, is to recognise in our very language and laws, in the small work of living in a place, where we are committing crimes against life.

if this sounds extreme, perhaps it is because the shift that must happen is once again deeply patterned in viewing our ecologies and economies as necessarily competitive, not collaborative. if, for a plant, a body, to be healthy it must have beaten away competition until it is alone and all there is, a monoculture, then success is indeed murder.

we see this thinking in antibiotic overuse, in mono-crops for miles, in fear of contamination and infection. yet if we see instead that none of us is one but that each of us hold billions within us, living cultures living within living cultures, microbially balancing all the time, in infinite exchange, well.

if we see that life on our skin and in our gut and on our leaves and in our soil and drunk up, inhaled, exhaled on the wind, it is all an enormous collaboration of life-giving communities and processes, well.

then our diversity is our resilience.

then like my body the garden is a neighbourhood, a community. our response to crisis need not be anti-biotic but pro-biotic. imbibing not poisons but wild fermentations, fermenting change.

then it is resistance, reinvention, to trust in the resilience of a system we are but a part of. to pause the impulse to kill off what threatens the houseplant, the garden bed, the farm crop, and instead to observe what the system needs. if our needs are met, does our well-being thrive? it seems like that is a pattern we could live by.

in our thriving we need not cause the destruction of all else. it is in mutual thriving that we reculture a world that we can all live in.

Whose Side?

By Ana Salote

Pesticide, insecticide,
herbicide, homicide,
ecoside, femicide,
youcide, mecide, wecide

Your side, my side,
war and peace side,
flower and beecide,
right side, left side,
life’s side, death’s side

Okay Earth: On which side is wisdom?
Mother answers: A sphere has no sides.

I do not own this garden
This soil is not mine
It arrived here indirectly
Through the slow mail of time

Twisted layers of sediment
A thousand tonnes of clay
Magma fields and scraping ice
All shaped the land this way

I do not own this garden
Or all that thrives within
No deed can give these lives to me
Their unbound flourishing

Nature knows no boundaries
Picket fences of barbed wire
Life has always been the landlord
All our freeholds will expire

I do not own this garden
But I do own the choice
To treat what lives with kindness
And to give that life a voice

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Before we dive into the questions, just a reminder that you can find Part One here, Part Two here and Part Three here. Now, enjoy!

EO: This story really feels like it comes from the heart, with a lot of real-life experience thrown in there. How did you come to write it?

AJ: Two-Eyed Seeing comes from my heartbreak over the state of American medicine and psychiatry, which has declined in my 40 years of practice.

From a treatment orientation, which was fun and felt useful, to a for-profit productivity model, the chicken processing factory metaphor isn’t far from the truth.

During the pandemic, I practiced in New Zealand, which was more like working in the 1990s. The Maori way of healing mental illness was fascinating and inspired me to look for North American indigenous practices. Dr. Lewis Mehl-Madrona has written about this, and introduced me to the Mi’kmaq tradition of blending western and indigenous healing, called Two-Eyed Seeing. I realized there were better ways of doing things, and that people were doing them here in the US.

EO: How did you come to Thrutopia?

AJ: Prior to medical school, I’d been involved in ecology and activism in the Appalachian Mountains. Being in the woods has always been a restorative place for me. So in 2021 I took Manda Scott’s Accidental Gods and Dreaming Awake courses. This led to the Thrutopia writing course, and I began writing some short pieces. These are about healing people and the land, and about how to live regeneratively in healthy communities.

I agree with Thrutopia’s premise that stories help us imagine how things could be, both in psychiatry and in creating a future we would be proud to leave behind. It’s been great to be part of this Thrutopian writing group – really smart, kind people who come up with fantastic ideas for a better world.

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EO: Your story, Two-Eyed Seeing, ends on a positive note in an uncertain future. I'm really intrigued by all the possibilities for where it could go, so I wondered whether it's part of a larger piece. Or have you considered writing more in this story world?

AJ: A few more stories are in the works and some are still in my head!

EO: Is there another Thrutopian story, artwork or person you'd like to point us to? Please feel free!

AJ: Ursula LeGuin’s Books of Earthsea are my favorite. I also recommend Joanna Macy’s Active Hope, Sharon Blackie’s and Martin Shaw’s books, and Permaculture Magazine. Also, here on Substack, Bending the Arc magazine and SolarPunk Stories are great in these dark times of crumbling empire.

EO: Thank you, Amy, and I look forward to reading more of your stories in future!

Thank you for reading! If you haven’t yet read Amy’s story and her answers have piqued your interest, you can find Part One here, Part Two here and Part Three here. Whether you’ve recently found us or have been here since the beginning, we are grateful to share this space with you. We’ll be back in 2026 with more Thrutopian fiction, poetry and art.

Two-Eyed Seeing by Amy Johnson

Part 3

We left Henrietta just starting to get a feel for this future in which she has landed – not a perfect future, but one in which those around her are finding the best path they can through the darkness and difficulty she’s been facing in her own life. Now, she needs to make some decisions.

A month later in her spartan rooms, Henrietta tried to calm, think, and listen to her gut.

Do a pros and cons list. On paper, she wrote STAYING with two columns.

PROs: She loved the work, had kind colleagues, and a slower pace of life. Time. Physically, she was feeling better, as the trauma of training and debt left her body. She was worrying less and laughing more. Doing yoga and qi gong had helped her “open her heart,” as the teachers often said. And the food…

CONs: Her mother in the future would be 75, living a day’s travel away. She would have less time with her. How would she explain? And then there was Nelson, her cat, now dust under the rosebush in this future world. There was danger in the dictatorship they had now, and the possibility of more fires, heat domes, and hunger. Less advanced medical care. If she went back, maybe she could take some of these ideas about helping people. Could she have changed things before they got to this point?

To the PRO list she added, “Rob, maybe.”

It was early fall, with the smell of smoke in the air. After several months, they were having dinner at Rob’s apartment down the hill, on the porch. Lucille, John Little’s dog, was curled up under the table. Rob (who had asked Hen to refer to them by they/them pronouns) had made some squash soup, with sourdough bread and butter, pickled dilly beans, and fresh tomatoes.

“Sorry, it’s probably not what you are used to,” they said, smiling at her. “Most of it is from the garden share. The lovely pear wine came from my sister.”

They had been working together on the unit, and the attraction was strong. Rob was kind and funny in a dry, British sort of way. They were friends. Both had talked about how unwise it was to pursue the attraction until Hen knew what she wanted to do, either to go back or stay. Things could get bad, with tipping points, and the probable need to emigrate north in the next few years. Once involved, they might find it hard to think rationally.

Yet there Rob was, slowly cutting the bread they had made for her, and she was acutely aware of the curly reddish hairs on Rob’s wrist, and the way they smelled like pine needles. Robin emitted a force field she could feel when they were close. Her own skin was tingling with electricity several inches deep. Am I glowing? Is it so obvious? All she wanted to do was touch them.

She reached out and encircled their wrist with her hand.

“I want to stay.”

Rob laid down the knife and touched her face.

“Are you sure? It will be very hard. Things will get worse.”

Henrietta stood up and moved towards them, wrapping her arms around Rob’s shoulders.

Her heart was thudding, and her belly felt like it had turned to liquid silver.

“Yes.”

Robin touched her face. Their pupils were dilated, making their blue eyes seem black. As they kissed, she felt the force field grow until it enveloped them both. They began exploring wherever bare skin could be found, and then were quickly pulling off their flimsy cotton clothes.

“Are you sure, Henrietta? I’m afraid the birth control these days is not so good.”

“I’ll take my chances. Now shut up.”

Much later, they lounged entangled on his bed, looking out the window at Orion while a pink half-moon rose in the southeast.

“So, doctor, what is your assessment?” Rob asked, arm around her back.

“Pretty good, Mx. H., for a ginger, but I think we need to keep practicing,” she laughed.

A million cicadas sang, and a screech owl cried out its sad tremolo.

After Henrietta left to sleep at her place, Rob made themself a cup of tea, wondering how and why they had created this colossal mess. Rob cared for Henrietta, was in love even, but their mission with the Mycelial Group was to send someone back and try to save the planet from destruction. The whole point of putting Rob in this job was to collect transportees and return them to fix things. So far, the government had not found out about the wormhole.

Where was the focal point in time to stop climate disaster? The ramping up of coal burning for industry? The destruction of train systems in favor of cars and interstates in the 1960s? The 2000 election stolen from Al Gore? The increasing powers of billionaires in the 2010s? The 2024 election of a right-wing dictator? For the last one, the Group thought that only an assassination would suffice. Robin couldn’t see Henrietta agreeing to violence. The Mycelial Group didn’t even know if it actually would send you back to the exact time you left. One doctor had gone back to be with his family, and they couldn’t find him in the present time to ask. Rob felt badly about hiding all this from Henrietta. They would tell her tomorrow.

On Monday, Henrietta walked down to the unit to start her day, and was met with Nell Crowe, crying and packing up boxes.

“What’s happening?” Henrietta asked as she touched her arm.

“My son needs me. My daughter-in-law Kate has died of an appendicitis. They didn’t reach the hospital in time from the Deep Lake field station, and they have two young children. I need to go now!”

Henrietta hugged her. “I’m so sorry. How can I help?”

Nell took a deep breath and said, “Help me clean up the last twenty years of my life. I have to condense it to one box, to fit on the train. Thank you, my dear.” Together they looked at each object: feathers, stones, letters, and pictures. There was a hand-made dream catcher of grapevine with one white owl feather and beads made of quartz. “These really work,” Nell said, and handed it to Henrietta.

What are my dreams? Henrietta had given up having her own life in the last decade of training. Why? So she would appear “serious,” or even good enough. She was a woman of color training in the south, which was the first hurdle. Lack of sleep for several years had led to lack of imagination. Perhaps my amygdala is all shrivelled up. How do I want my future to look? To do the work, but maybe also to have a partner and be a mother. To have a garden and play the guitar. Was this world too scary to bring a new being into it? To love somebody so much only to lose them? She wanted to see her Mom, talk to her about these things. Maybe she would take the train north, too. Run it by Rob, see if they wanted to go.

It rained that night. As the orange sun climbed the bristly ridge of Attakullakulla Mountain, the mist people travelled down into the valley, wispily caressing the green life below. Plants, insects, mosses, vast mats of mycelia, and soil microbes sipped greedily, after the long summer drought. A squirrel stretched out on a cool rock, her gray fur coated in sparkles of mist. Grandfather rock wasn’t much bothered by the drought, having seen everything. But the shorter-lived beings breathed in cool mist and breathed out a sigh. We will survive.

Thank you for reading this story! We’ll be back next week with an interview with the author. In the meantime, please feel free to share it with others or comment with your thoughts.

Two-Eyed Seeing by Amy Johnson

Part 2

We left Henrietta with Rob about to explain some things to her, but our main character also has some things on her mind – like figuring out what’s real and what isn’t.

Hen felt her heart begin fluttering in her chest, and sweat formed on her forehead. Her thoughts began racing, as did her heart. What if I AM psychotic? But most hallucinations aren’t nice like this, and you can’t feel someone touching you. No, don’t cry, breathe.

She wondered how her mother was doing in Alabama. And her cat, Nelson Mandela, was he ok with the hippie pet sitter, Willow? Probably getting double portions by now. And what was she, 50? She looked at her hands, which were decidedly not gnarled or wrinkly.

She did what she had told many of her patients to do. Felt her feet on the ground, sinking roots from her feet into the earth, counting her breathing in and out. She tapped on her cheekbone meridian just under the pupil. Henrietta began to calm.

She had grown up in a working family in Alabama, and was the first to go to college, medical school, and on to be a psychiatrist. She had spent the last ten years busting her ass in med school and residency and did not have a partner, having no time to look or even think about it. The other residents, whom she knew like siblings, were mostly workaholics too. Now, she mainly worked and slept. But her eye was on the prize: to be a caring and compassionate healer of mental illness. She had lived it with her brother Ben, who got involved with drugs and then sank into psychosis. Nobody could help him because he wasn’t insured, and he spent years going in and out of psychiatric wards, with brief periods of normalcy. Normal. What is that? Ben had disappeared onto the streets.

“You are not crazy, please believe me,” Rob said earnestly, and she began to listen.

“Two years after you worked here, climate-related disasters increased quickly. With flooding, heating, and droughts, the first thing that broke down was shipping and supply chains, so that hospitals weren’t able to keep working as they had. Medications and even supplies like syringes were scarce. Hospitals became a low-profit enterprise, and the big multinationals flew the coop.”

Ha, is that a Purdoo Farms Equity joke? She laughed.

Looking out over the mountains in the hazy distance, she saw glinting solar panels on every roof. There were also jungly gardens in back yards. Wind turbines lazily turned on the peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Below, a lone electric cablecar passed, dinging its bell. People were walking up and down the hill.

Robin continued. “It’s been rough. As the warming increased, there were multiple heat domes and grid failures in the south that killed thousands. People began emigrating to northern states, which already had little housing, so that people were living in the forests, getting by as they could. Food in stores was already erratic and very expensive, and Victory Gardens sprouted up all over. Luckily, in this area, food crops still grow very well, and there were already small farming communities using traditional farming techniques. People began raising chickens and goats again. But many people went hungry and suffered, or died.”

She felt a jolt of panic hit her gut. “Do you know if my mother is OK? She lives down south.” Oh, Mom.

“Yes, we located her. Bernadette Dovie Jones. She is well and living near Lake Erie with your cousins.

“Henrietta, I know this is a lot, but perhaps if I can explain, things will make sense. In response to this crisis, two very different political movements occurred. There were the groups trying to limit personal freedom, wanting something akin to a dictatorship. They called themselves the Patriots. These were backed by the evangelicals and the multinationals. Anyone different was imprisoned, including LGBTQ folks and demonstrators, along with minorities and intellectuals who spoke out. They used tech spying, and local vigilante groups called The Home Garda, who would enforce their rules.

“The other was a grassroots campaign named The Mycelial Care Network. There were so few items to buy that people began learning how to make and fix things themselves. Bartering became more important than money. Part of the movement was underground, with resistance to increasing control. Communication was verbal or by paper messages, no electronics. There were factions similar to the Resistance in WW2, helping citizens evade the police state. People began moving to the high mountains, living in caves or camping. Local networks of communication and support were formed to help less fortunate people.

“Around the year 2029, consumerism had really declined. The crisis was still going on, but the large corporations like Walmart were not doing well. People wanted renewables, and just began doing their own things with what they salvaged. They got by with less, including electricity. Protests by people on bicycles took over the interstates. Flying became a rare event. It kept getting hotter, and there were more disasters. That brings us to now, 2050.”

Trying not to think about her cat, Henrietta wondered aloud, “How did that work with health care? Am I obsolete?” Her training had mostly covered diagnosis and medications. How would she pay back her loans?

Rob crinkled his blue eyes in another smile. “Out of need, we reverted back to some older ways of treating mentally ill people. We worked with indigenous healers nearby to approach people more holistically. Our programming is based on Two-Eyed Seeing, from indigenous healers. Our philosophy is to provide people with a supportive, natural environment and programming that works. We also have access to lithium and traditional plants used by the Cherokee. We use acupuncture, yoga, exercise, and meditation. Group therapy was brought back. Probably the most important change has been to help people find housing and community. We hooked up people with the Mycelial Care Networks, who provided co-housing and structure. We got to do things the right way once money and profit were not involved.”

“Wow! How are the outcomes looking? And who pays for this?” Hen was floored but also drawn to this way of helping her patients, finally.

“I know this is a lot, Dr. Jones, so would you like to take a walk or go inside and look around. Maybe change into something comfortable?”

They walked down a pebbled path under a bamboo pergola covered in grapevines heavy with fragrant purple Muscadines, and returned to a door to the hospital. This was the door she had entered a week ago – or 25 years and one week ago – when doing her orientation.

“These are what we wear at work, so just find one you like.”

Henrietta chose an indigo gauzy cotton jumpsuit, leaving her scrubs, badge, and phone in a locker.

“First, we’ll go to the unit, and then we can talk more in the lounge. Or if you’d like, we have apartments for the residents where you could take a break and have a think.”

Henrietta felt drawn to the warmth of Rob’s kindness and asked, “Are you a psychiatrist?”

Rob laughed. “I was a new social worker on the old unit, and stayed through the changes. There was nobody who would work here after the Second Pandemic. Then, when Purdoo left, it was chaos, so I just stuck it out. The people still needed help, especially with PTSD from all the losses and catastrophes.” Rob was about her age and had an easy way about him. And he looked really cute in that jumpsuit. NOOOO, girl. Stockholm Syndrome! But Rob does seem trustworthy. Get your head on straight.

They walked up to the psychiatric unit. 5B was breezy, with large windows and fans. “We had to improve the ventilation after the pandemics,” Robin said. It was decorated with light, natural textures and smelled clean.

People were sitting at tables, journaling, playing cards, or chatting. This is the old dayroom, Hen thought. Gone were the hard, heavy chairs (that couldn’t be thrown), and instead there were soft couches. “And over here is the group room where we have various activities going,” said Rob. “Right now we’re doing Qigong. If people are well enough, they also go outside for Nature-Based Therapy.”

“What do you do when someone is psychotic and aggressive?” This had been much of her job, giving shots of Ativan, Benadryl, and Haldol (called B-52s) to people who were out of control. She would do rounds in the morning with her laptop on a rolling table, see each patient for 5-10 minutes, then adjust meds and write a long, complex note so that insurance would pay. Seeing twenty patients a day, working 12 hours, then crashing at the hotel. No wonder I’ve gone over the edge.

Robin said gently. “It has totally changed since you were here. We had to adapt quickly, and we are basically back to more traditional ways of treating people with mental illness. Now that everyone has basic health care and UBI, we don’t have to deal with insurance companies or hospital profit goals. The people who work here are healers who want to do this, and enjoy their work. And the patients mostly get better. As before, there are people who remain unwell and need a lot of support and care. The Mycelial Care Network has developed small group homes in which the people can learn to garden, to fix or build, care for animals, etc. We use plants to help people calm down.”

Henrietta’s brain was full. She felt a huge sadness, but a tiny spring of joy was bubbling up from her heart. “I think I would like to rest for a minute and take all this in. I appreciate your help and understanding. Could I go to one of those apartments you mentioned?”

“Sure, sure, let’s go.” The small apartment was on the top floor of the hospital, with a view of the mountains, and a cool breeze greeted her at the windows. “I’ll get back to you in an hour.”

She poured some water and lay down on the single bed, pondering. Then crying.

Rob walked back to their office on the unit. This was their tenth “transportation” through the portal, and each one was different. But Henrietta Jones was something else. She was the first doctor who seemed excited about how mental health treatment had changed. No big ego, and she was compelling, not just because of her appearance. Tall, with dark curly hair, light grey intelligent eyes, and golden skin. She seemed to really care.

Rob knew not to let their attraction get in the way of the group’s hope that Dr. Hen was the one to help them. All the living beings had so little time left.

After a nap, Henrietta felt less crazy. I’m just going to go with this and not overthink like I always do. OK, Gran? Speaking to invisible dead people who whispered in her ear. What next?

She walked down the stairs to 5 B and went in. Robin was nowhere to be found, but a woman who seemed to be working there looked up. She was in her sixties, and her white hair was braided in a rope down her back. “Hi, I’m Nell Crowe, social worker, herbalist, and kaumatua. My people are from the Quallah Boundary reservation, Bird Clan. How can I help?”

“Yes. I was wondering if I could get a tour of the unit?” I came from the past through the toilet downstairs. No, don’t say that.

“Sure, Doctor Hen. I know who you are, and you are welcome. Most people are in group or outside, and a few are getting treatments. What would you like to see first?”

“First, what is a kaumatua?” Hen asked.

“It’s a Maori word for elder. We used their model of having elders involved in health care clinics, to provide wisdom and help stabilize the team and patients. ”

Henrietta thought for a second and said, “I’d really like to know how you decide which people need what treatment. It sounds like you have so many approaches.”

Nell smiled, and Henrietta felt warmth pouring over her like syrup. Tears began to well in her eyes and she felt her heart cracking open.

“Here,” Nell said, “sit down and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

Henrietta did not like to cry in public, but it felt like so much anxiety and grief were near the surface.

“It’s all right to cry,” Nell said, handing her some lemony herbal tea. “The river of tears helps raise our boats when we’re stuck.”

“I’m OK. I’m not used to people at work being so caring.”

Nell looked at her and said, “You’ve been through a lot these past few years and days. Now you can relax and learn.”

“So, to answer your question, Hen, when someone comes in through the ER, which we now call Triage for Care, we decide if we can help, and then where they should go, whether up here or to a less restrictive group home. Once here, we have a treatment team meeting each morning to understand what the issues are. The man sitting at that table, for example, came from north Georgia, and lost his family in a forest fire. He walked north and ended up here.”

Across the room sat a man in his forties, who was writing in a journal. He had curly black hair and his dark brown skin had pink healing scars. He looked profoundly sad.

“What is his treatment plan?” Hen asked.

“He feels he has no reason to live, no purpose. His wife and young child are gone, his home destroyed. First, we listened to him deeply as he told his story, listening with both native and scientific knowledge. This is what’s known as Two-Eyed Seeing, from the Mi’kmaq elders in Nova Scotia. While listening with indigenous knowledge, images arise that may help. We blend this with scientific knowledge about healing. Joining with him in his grief and continuing to listen are most important. We may intuit a story that can help him make sense, as in narrative therapy. We may actually hear or know what to do, knowledge from the ancestors. Relationships and community are so important, so we are trying to locate some relatives, which is hard due to all the migration.” Nell saw him looking at them and waved.

“Would it be OK if I talked with him? He reminds me of someone.” Nell said yes, and Hen walked over.

His name was John Little, and he had lived through hell. While walking north after the fire, he felt like dying every day. Each bridge or river looked like a way to end his torment. On the third day, a small grizzled yellow dog had begun to follow him. He told Henrietta that caring for “Lucille” became his reason to go on. Aside from that, he had no plan.

Hen listened deeply with tears in her eyes and began to think about John’s future, and all of those people trudging north with broken hearts.

We’ll leave it there for this week. Just a reminder that you can find Part One here and Part Three here!

So here at Welcome to Thrutopia, we’d like to welcome you to a future world in which we made it through. This is part one of a short story by Amy Johnson; parts two and three will be posted later this month. Please enjoy!

Two-Eyed Seeing by Amy Johnson

(Part one, in which an exhausted psychiatrist finally makes it to the bathroom and ends up… somewhere else.)

The door to the Provider Workstation opened with her new badge. She entered a dark basement lounge decorated in yellow chickens and roosters, along with bucolic farm scenes, and employee “notices of your rights” pinned 5 deep on a crumbling cork bulletin board. One of these was called Preventing Burnout. Another said, “This Is A Right-To-Work State.” Under it, a table was lined with plastic water bottles, Mentos, and saltine crackers.

BATHROOM! NOW! THIS IS YOUR BLADDER SPEAKING! Henrietta had not had time to pee since entering the Psych unit this morning. She was about ready to burst. In a dark corner, a male doctor was slumped in one of the cubicles, dictating, and he knowingly pointed to a sliding metal door.

I waited too long, she thought as she sat on the toilet and looked around the small stainless steel room. Maybe I need to wear a diaper at work. Hen relaxed and let go, while also checking her phone, which was now flashing CODE RED UNIT 5B. Probably Mr. Jolly, who was agitated, needing lots of Haldol and Ativan last night. The other nineteen patients were also unstable, coming off meth, or hallucinating because they had stopped their meds. Then there were the quiet ones in their rooms, suicidal, but not making a fuss. These worried her the most.

Hells bells, the unit can manage for two minutes. She was the only psychiatrist there, working as a locum tenens temporary doctor, on call every night. The money was good and would help pay off her $200k in student loans. But this was grueling. Since Purdoo Farms Equity Division took over the bankrupt HPV Hospital, things had gone from bad to worse. With a multinational chicken processor now running health care clinics and hospitals, everything had sped up, and the past “frills” of therapy and support staff were gone. Just meds and beds, she thought. Most of the patients were unhoused, with a rolling admission and discharge list of three a day, often sent back to tents or the woods along the river. The one holdout social worker looked frozen, a pale statue, and the nurses had a dartboard in their locker room of the CEOs of Purdoo showing their millions in salaries. There was also a handwritten sign urging them to join the union and strike. The worst, though, was the Utilization Review robot-woman who came by every morning, suggesting discharges for people whose insurance had stopped paying. It seemed to Dr. Jones that she was not helping anyone at this place. There was no time for that.

Reaching down, psychiatrist Henrietta Jones pushed a cool metal button below the rim to flush.

With a resounding CRACK, the toilet began shaking. Just what I need, an earthquake.

The metal room shook too. Lights flashed. Warm water began squirting up, soaking her brand-new designer scrubs. Hen pulled them up anyway and opened the door to get out of there. When she looked back, the toilet had transformed into a gleaming white porcelain bidet.

What she saw next was astounding. No earthquake, but a clean light-filled room full of people having lunch, chatting and laughing, shelves of healthy-looking salads, and a grill. I must really be sleep deprived, she thought. Nobody dashing from the room or lurking back in the shadows, signing endless orders and “deficiencies.” She sat down with a thud, flabbergasted, while eyeing the grilled goat cheese on artisan bread at the next table. Her stomach growled. Borborygmi, my old friend, she thought, realizing she hadn’t eaten yet today.

“Excuse me, are you Dr. Jones?” A young man in a relaxed cotton jumpsuit approached her.

“Yes, and who are you?”

“I’m Rob, your orientation specialist.”

Rob was smiling at her, a slim androgynous person with a slight English accent, and generous but very appealing ears sporting silver granny glasses. His fingernails were painted orange.

Henrietta still felt stunned. “Can you please tell me what is going on?”

“Sure, why don’t we get some food and go to the courtyard?” Courtyard, sunshine, food. OK, I’m game. She had only been at work or at the Residence Inn, bingeing Netflix and eating fast food for the last week. Hope I don’t wake up soon. Maybe they’ll admit me to the unit, and I can get some rest.

They stepped out into an enormous fruit and flower garden, a completely different place from what she had entered this morning.

It was hot, damn hot, and muggy too. Her polyester scrubs felt like a suffocating second skin. The sky was an odd color, a gray-yellow, but the sun still beat down. Rob saw her shock and took her over to a shady bench under some trees, near a fountain. The mist of the fountain brushed her face every now and then.

“I know this is all very strange, but please understand that you are safe and I will explain everything,” he said with his friendly, open smile.

Either I’ve had a psychotic break or there was LSD in my coffee. I thought it tasted funny.

“I’ll put it plainly. You are in the future. Somehow, there is a portal from the doctors’ lounge bathroom to our current time, which is twenty years into your future. We’ve had so many upset doctors travelling through here that we’ve created a new position to help them. Me. I’ve done this many times, and I haven’t lost anyone yet.”

Henrietta still did not believe this, but played along while wolfing down her semi-soft goat cheese, arugula, and pickle on sourdough. “Can I ever go back?”

Rob smiled. “Yes, if you want to, but most people don’t.”

The sandwich tasted great. “Wow, this is delicious. I haven’t eaten all day. Is the bread homemade? And the cheese, ahhhmmm, tastes like something I got at a Portuguese deli. Are the pickles homemade? They’re like my grandmother Henny’s. But who is covering the unit and my patients?”

Stop your blabbering, and pay attention, her Gran’s voice whispered in her ear..

“Not to worry. The way this works is, if you want to go back, it is as if no time passed while you were gone. Time in your earlier world has stopped, so you won’t meet your younger self. It’s like reality on two tracks. In the meantime, what can I tell you?”

Oh shit, I’m in Outlander, she thought. “What started this? Was it the flush?” She was now digging into her walnut and fig slice, covered in full cream caramel sauce and mint leaves.

If this is a psychotic break, at least the food is good.

“Yes,” Rob squinted his eyes, and his ears moved up just a bit. “There’s something about the presence of strong feelings of either anger, despair, or fear that seems to activate the portal when the toilet is flushed. We don’t know why, but some think that the hospital was built on an old Cherokee sacred site atop the hill here. It’s not the only one in the Southern Appalachians, but this one only seems to transport healers. Perhaps it was used in the past 10,000 years that the Cherokee roamed these mountains. Maybe they travelled to the future and back to get help or wisdom. It’s part of the lore of the vortex in this valley.”

Now that her belly was full, Henrietta began to relax. At least she had a story to explain what was happening. But isn’t that how delusions are formed? Things feel so exquisitely heightened with suspicion that a story must be constructed to explain it. The CIA is tracking me, or I have chips embedded in me by vaccines. The transmitters are talking in my ear. That old dopamine paranoia, not easily treated by any medication. Maybe I’m like old Aunt Tosh, who got paranoid as time went on, and believed everything she heard on Faux News. Henrietta’s diagnosis: some generalized brain atrophy with a soupcon of paranoid flair and mob mentality. Hope that’s not genetic…

Looking around, she noticed that all the former parking lots around the hospital had been transformed into gardens, ponds, paths, and cool shady spots for reflection. People were walking and talking quietly in pairs. There were hundreds of bikes and scooters. A black and orange bird sang out in the sycamore tree, “Drink your teeea.” A cool breeze rolled down the mountain, as if it were breathing out a sigh. It was so quiet.

“Where are all the cars?”

Rob smiled again, sighed, and said, “Sit back and I will tell you a story from your time until now.” He gently squeezed her hand.

Thanks for reading this first instalment! We’ll leave Henrietta and Rob there; come back next week to hear Rob’s story. UPDATE: Please go here to read Part Two! And please feel free to share or comment to let us know your thoughts!

I really fell into it by always picking the easier option. In college, I majored in English because I figured reading novels would be easier than science or math.

My first real job was working at a film and video production company. Writing scripts was easier than schlepping equipment in the Florida heat, so I volunteered to be the writer. That led to a brief career writing scripts for bad B movies. Ultimately, I stumbled into a job writing for Walt Disney Imagineering. That lasted for two decades. By then, I guess I was a writer pretty much by default.

You call yourself a Futurist Storyteller. What is that all about?

One of the most important lessons I learned at Disney was the power of story. Before Walt Disney opened the theme parks, he was making films that had a major influence on shaping the public’s ideas about the future. That 1950s techno-optimism that Disney loved helped create the world we’re still living in today.

Realizing that power sparked my interest in how we could use story to shape a different kind of future. At about the same time, I discovered there were people who actually thought about these things professionally- they called themselves futurists.

I started hanging out with futurists while writing stories for Disney on everything from classic fairytales to stories set in Tomorrowland. The futurists I met had the tools to think strategically about the future, but they lacked the storytelling skills. It was a natural fit for me to try to bridge that gap.

What attracted you to thrutopia?

Not really sure where I first discovered Manda Scott’s announcement for the Thrtuopia masterclass, but I knew immediately it was something I had to do. By then I had left Disney and was using the tools of story and foresight to help clients Imagineer better tomorrows. So, I was always on the lookout for any community that was aligned with similar goals. The class was great, and it led to becoming part of a wonderful community of writers that continues to inspire and sustain me. I think that for anyone trying to imagine better tomorrows, it’s critical to find a community of like-minded dreamers, especially in these dark times.

Was Gabby’s First Kiss inspired by a particular experience?

Two incidents from real life inspired the story. The first was work I did with a nonprofit group here in Florida dedicated to helping people prepare for hurricanes and other extreme weather events. As that group became more conscious of the threat of climate change, they broadened their efforts to look at more resilience forms of building and land management. I learned a lot about construction from sitting in on their meetings.

The actual setting for the story came from a visit to a small fishing village on the east coast of Florida. It had an amazing history, starting with indigenous people who had fished the waters 2000 years ago. In the 1700s Cuban fishermen would travel here and set up temporary camps to fish the abundant waters. In the late 1880s, families from North Carolina settled in the area and established the town of Cortez.

Cortz flourished as a fishing community until 1921, when it was destroyed by a hurricane. Today, it has that feeling of being a little worn around the edges, but people still live and fish there. It just feels like the kind of resilient, adaptive community that I could imagine stepping up to create a different future.

What do you hope readers take from the story?

In part, the story is about the joys of everyday life- growing up, sharing family memories, that first kiss. I think too often when we imagine a future where we are dealing with climate change, we forget about joy. But without joy, what’s the point of even trying to deal with these massive challenges? The work will be hard for sure, but we’ll still find time to be human.

The other theme for me is about community. So much of the conversation around climate change focuses on the global nature of the problem, which is true. But increasingly, the most innovative, practical responses are coming from local communities. Making the kind of radical change required really will be a case of thinking globally, acting locally, or at least acting bioregionally.

Tell us about your latest projects

I’m trying a little narrative experiment on Substack. It’s a bit of future fiction called Searching for Hope AfterAmerica: The Practopia Project.

The story follows the journey of an unpurposed writer as he travels across the former United States in 2042. His mission: to report on communities where people and planet thrive. It’s short, just ten episodes to be released over the next few weeks. I really hope it inspires other writers to create their own stories of communities that have come thru the challenges we face and are creating new visions of the future.

Futurists Heidi and Alvin Toffler coined the term Practopia in the 1970s. It refers to visions of the future that might seem radical but are still possible- a kind of practical utopia.

I see it as the slightly more optimistic cousin to thrutopia. We’re facing really serious problems, and working thru them is going to be tough. But, I think it’s always important to have as our goal a future where people and the planet thrive. That’s how I define practopia.

Any advice for others trying to write these kinds of stories?

Foremost, find your community. When you start doing this work, it can feel awfully lonely. It seems like everybody else is writing stories about terrifying dystopias or wildly fantastic futures where technology solves all our problerms. What I’ve found is that there are a ton of like-minded creatives out there. They may call themselves thrutopian, or solar-punks, or climate advocates, but they’re all trying to imagine a future that works. It’s our collective imaginations that give us the power to actually change the path forward.

Second, don’t be afraid to dream big. I just heard Rob Hopkins, author of How to Fall in Love with the Future, speak. His advice was to be audacious in your ideas for how we change things. The problems we face, climate change, political polarization, economic inequality, etc. are all deeply rooted in our current systems. As Manda Scott likes to say, the problems caused by capitalism are not a bug, they are the design of the system. Solving systemic issues requires bold steps. That journey begins with changing the stories we tell about what is possible.

They had debated long and hard before deciding what to do with their newfound treasure. It was a point of pride among the community to reuse everything, even trash blown in by the storms. The village Remakers repurposed the found objects into works of art, benches, and even playground structures that dotted the village.

Danh had imagined the log would make an impressive totem pole, but Gabby argued for something useful. In the end, they had compromised. With the help of Danh’s dad, the best carver in the village, they turned the log into a bench with an intricately detailed scene telling the story of the Bodhi tree.

Even though they didn’t expect to find anything nearly as exciting today, they still walked the beach. The tide was going out, so they wandered among the mangroves—primordial trees with twisted roots dipping in and out of the water. Gabby and Danh meandered along until they came to the village’s picnic pavilion. Their bench was just beyond, tucked away in a stand of tall bamboo. They sat down on the bench, close enough that their knees touched. The feeling sent a tiny tingle up Gabby’s spine.

“So, whadya doing today?” she asked.

Danh, apparently completely unaware of the physical tension in the air replied nonchalantly, “Working on one of your aunt’s bio-digester stations.”

Gabby laughed. “I warned you about asking Tía Maria to be your mentor. Once she gets hold of you, there’s no getting away.”

Danh pulled a handful of leaves off the bamboo growing next to the bench. He began weaving them together as they talked. “No poop shall go unscooped.”

“Eh, gross,” Gabby hit Danh’s knee with hers. “Now you’re just trying to be disgusting.”

Danh finished twisting the leaves together and held up an intricately woven bamboo ring. He handed it to Gabby and said, “All part of the great circle of life, em gái.”

She took it from him and just stared at it. What was this supposed to mean? Was Danh giving her a ring? Or was it just another one of his goofy jokes?

“So, what you up to today?” Danh asked.

“Aqua harvest with Mom.” Gabby’s mother managed the community’s aquafarm. It was one of the village’s most successful projects, providing food for the residents and a source of income.

The water in the bay was cleaner than it had been in over a hundred years. With a little help from local marine biologists, it had been easy to re-establish the oyster and scallop beds and bring back the fish and shrimp populations. The return of the seafood harvests was a reminder of what had brought many of Gabby’s and Danh’s ancestors to this coast originally. Today, that natural bounty was enhanced by the latest sustainable aquaculture methods, and the village was once again a prime supplier of fresh seafood to the surrounding communities.

Working with her Mom, Gabby could earn badges in marine biology and aqua-ag. She thought she might even do a little marine science one day. For now, she mainly liked hanging out with her mother.

Seafood was just one of the community’s agricultural bounties. There were box gardens that lined the community pathways where anyone could pick a handful of herbs to cook, small plots near every house, and even a state-of-the-art aeroponics greenhouse. Inside the greenhouse, vegetables literally grew in the air, their bare roots hanging down like stringy hair. Between the year-round warm weather and cutting-edge agriculture technology, the community produced more than enough food to feed itself and to send to nearby markets.

“Oh, hey. S’posed to ask if you want to come to Pipo’s birthday party on Friday. He’s turning ninety-five, so Mom and Tía Maria are going all out.”

“For sure,” Danh exclaimed. “I mean, if it’s cool with you and all.”

Gabby tried to respond nonchalantly. “Whatever, it’s nice to have somebody my age around, you know. They may even make ropa vieja. Its Pipo’s favorite and Mom said she knew you liked it.”

“With real beef? Last time your mom made that, I pigged out. Kinda surprised she’d invite me back.”

“Oh, she thinks you’re special.” Gabby smiled.

In fact, Sophia and Tía Maria had taken to referring to Danh as Gabby’s “special friend.” Gabby wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Oh, she knew their relationship was way different, but that didn’t mean she wanted her mother to be broadcasting it to everyone.

They spent the next few minutes sitting in silence, something they often did. At first these pauses had felt awkward, but lately Gabby had realized that they were special moments—sharing the natural beauty of this place they were so lucky to call home.

Pipo, out for his morning walk, interrupted their reverie. He rarely missed a day and always wore the same outfit—a perfectly pressed guayabera shirt, linen slacks, and his trademark Panama hat. He stopped when he saw them.

“Why are you niños not in school?” he demanded.

Gabby blushed and tried to explain to him, for the hundredth time, that it was not like the old days when sitting in a classroom was the only place you could learn.

When she had finally finished her explanation, Pipo shook his head in bewilderment. “Come walk with me, nieta.”

Gabby gave Danh a quick look and got up. “So, see you Friday, here in the park.”

“It’s a date,” he replied, hopping off the bench. When he realized what he had said, he stammered quickly, “Gotta fly. Got poop to scoop.” With that, he jumped on the hoverboard and zipped off.

She watched him disappear. A voice in her head was shrieking: A date? Is that really what he had said? She wasn’t sure if she was scared, excited, or both. She was so distracted that she didn’t even notice that Pipo had continued his walk without her.

She ran to catch up and took his hand as they walked toward the shore. Pipo began to reminisce. Walking with one of his grandchildren and telling them stories of the past was his favorite thing to do. Gabby was frequently his audience, and she had heard most of his stories many times.

“You know, Gabriela, we use to live right here on this very spot. Our home wasn’t fancy, but it had been in our family for seven generations, ever since our people first came here to fish.

“Then came the summer of the great storms. Six hurricanes in less than three months. It seemed like we spent all our time getting ready for a storm or cleaning up after one; sometimes doing both at the same time. The last storm, the biggest one of all, hit right here. The entire village washed away. Destruido. Your abuela cried and cried for days.”

The thought of Gabby’s grandmother losing everything made her so sad every time she heard this story, even though she knew it had a happy ending.

Over the years, life after the storms had developed into a predictable pattern. First came the clean-up, sometimes taking weeks or months, then the insurance companies and the government would help them rebuild. But this time the insurance companies didn’t come. They said there had been too many storms and they were out of money. The state’s catastrophe fund was empty, and there were no funds available from the federal government. For the first time, the residents didn’t know how they were going to rebuild.

That’s when Tía Maria came home. She had been working up north as an urban planner. Under her leadership, a group of homeowners approached the city with a bold plan. In exchange for assistance in building new homes, the citizens would turn over their land along the shore. Everyone agreed that the old ways weren’t going to work anymore, especially as the sea levels continued to rise and the warmer ocean waters spawned more violent storms.

After months of negotiations, the officials learned what Gabby’s family had long known; you don’t argue with Tía Maria. And that was how Bahía del Paraíso was born.

In exchange for the coastline property, the city gave the residents vacant farmland next to the former village. The land—long ago over-farmed and abandoned—was considered worthless. But when Tía Maria got her hands on it, she got to work building a world class resilient village.

In just five years, the community reached their goal of having a zero-carbon footprint. In fact, they had a net positive effect on the environment. Those improvements meant that the residents were healthier and happier.

Important people from around the world came to visit them now. The United Nations had even designated Bahía del Paraíso a sustainable world site, and Tía Maria was always being invited to important conferences to tell their story.

Pipo stopped walking. Gabby knew they had reached his favorite spot on the beach. Thirty yards offshore, an enormous, brightly colored sea dragon rose out of the water. The dragon’s scales were made from ceramic tiles, salvaged from Pipo’s old home. Tiles that Gabby’s ancestors brought all the way from Cuba.

Gabby thought it was pretty neat that something from her family’s past was now part of her future. What was even cooler to a thirteen-year-old was that the Remakers had rigged the dragon to use bio-gas to breathe real fire. Of course, Tía Maria only allowed them to light it on special occasions.

Pipo’s birthday would be one of those special occasions. Gabby imagined the scene. The dragon that represented her family, breathing fire under a star-filled sky, moonlight reflecting off the water. It just might be the perfect time and place for a first kiss.

Gabby nearly knocked her mother over as she rushed through the kitchen and out the front door. Outside, she paused to look over the horizon. Her home, like all the homes in Bahía del Paraíso, sat high in the air; protected from the floods that were a regular part of life in their small coastal community. From her perch, she could easily see all the way to the bay. In the early morning sunlight, the mangroves along the water’s edge glowed as if they were on fire. Beyond them, the crystal-clear blue water sparkled.

There had been a storm the night before. Not a very big one. The kind that Pipo dismissed as nothing more than a pequeño mosquito before going back to playing dominos with Uncle Eduardo. But even minor storms could leave behind unexpected treasures, so it was definitely worth checking out.

She skipped along the boardwalk that connected all the houses in the village. Gabby’s Tía Maria, the community’s designer, had adamantly opposed the flying walkways. She argued that “flimsy bridges” would completely compromise the integrity of her carefully planned resilient design.

Everyone understood the importance of strong homes, but these were practical people. They argued that it made no sense to climb down forty-five steps and then right back up just to visit the next-door neighbor. What about the old people, they had cried? Or the mothers with little children?

Tía Maria finally gave in, but only after they had come up with a design that made it possible to detach the bridges whenever a hurricane approached. Gabby loved the bridges. Scampering from house to house made her feel like a creature living high in the trees of an exotic jungle.

Gabby had recently turned thirteen. Like so many girls her age, she had experienced a growth spurt that left her tall and gangly. She navigated the swinging walkways with the loose grace of a child on the brink of becoming a confident young woman for whom every day would be a new adventure.

Her partner in those adventures was Danh. Even though they were the same age, she was nearly a head taller than him. Where she was lean and willowy, he was solid and compact. But he was the only boy her age who could keep up with her. They never missed the chance to search for treasures after a storm.

Standing on the deck that surrounded Danh’s house, she peered inside his open bedroom window and called out quietly, “Danh, you awake?”

“’Bout time, em gái,” his booming response came from behind.

Startled, she spun around to see Danh, floating on his hoverboard, just above her head.

“Jerk,” she said, and swatted playfully at him.

He deftly maneuvered the board out of reach and smiled.

“Race you down,” he challenged and then disappeared as he sent the board into a steep dive.

Gabby ran for the stairs. She hit every third step on the way down, getting to the bottom as fast as she could, where a smirking Danh leaned casually against the rail.

“You cheat,” she complained.

“You just hate that you’re too klutzy to fly a board.”

“I can still beat you in a fair race” Gabby shouted suddenly. She dashed off toward the water.

Danh watched her go and then hopped on his board. It didn’t take him long to catch up. He slowed to match her pace, and the two of them followed the paths that zigzagged through the parklike greenspace that separated the homes from the bay.

When they finally reached the beach, Gabby dropped to the sand, out of breath. Danh circled her twice before stepping off the board. The board idled by his side, ready to follow wherever he went. After a few deep gulps of air, Gabby sat up and surveyed the beach.

“I already did a zoom-by. Nothing interesting,” Danh offered.

“Bummer,” Gabby replied.

That was life as a storm pirate. Most of the time you only found little odds and ends, usually from the homes destroyed when the old barrier islands disappeared. Sometimes you got lucky and scored major treasure. Earlier in the summer, after a particularly big storm, they had discovered an ancient-looking log floating just offshore. Gabby’s mother told them it looked like part of a Bodhi tree that might have been carried by the storm all the way from the Ivory Coast of Africa.

to be continued….

1. Introduce yourself- tell us a little about your writing background

I’m Sarah Allen, a writer, mother and a human keen to keep planet Earth habitable for future generations. I’ve been writing for about 7 years now starting with social media posts then blog posts, Patreon, a newspaper column, Substack and my own book. Most of my writing focuses on my own journey towards sustainable living alongside learning to live with the Earth’s seasonal patterns and my own cyclical nature. I am grateful for this digital age we live in and how this gets my writing out into the world.

2. What brought you to the Thrutopia Community?

The power of social media! I saw a post about the Thrutopia Masterclass with Manda Scott. It resonated strongly with me and felt an exciting next step in my writing; a way to combine or extend my blogging into future thinking, visioning and fiction writing.

3. What does Thrutopia look like to you?

Thrutopia is a way of showing how good life can be. It’s clear that we need to make some big shifts to keep planet Earth habitable for humans and this can be very scary and create a lot of resistance in people. Many of us have a very comfortable life right now and a lot of sustainable living ideas include giving up some of the things we’ve grown accustomed to having. Thrutopia shows a way through to the other side and yes, we do need to stop some aspects of human activity, but this doesn’t have to be a bad thing. In fact, I think it could end up being the complete opposite and be a good and joyful, connected and community-based existence. Although many of us have a comfortable life in terms of the stuff we own the truth is many of us are missing connection, community and joy in everyday life. Thrutopia shows us life can be different using the power of story and imagination in a realistic way.

4. Your story feels very real, how closely does it mirror your life today?

My story is set in the actual street I live in. I’ve observed how it is right now and imagined what it could be. I’ve pictured myself leaving the house on a Monday morning, like I really do, and written a different reality. Some of the ideas in my story mirror aspects of life here for example many people do grow fruit and vegetables and often share them with each other such as a glut of apples being left on the street for people to help themselves to. Just this week, a neighbour messaged me to say she has some pears she is giving away and I left the house, with my shopping bag and went and picked some up which felt similar to what I’m describing in my story. However, there is currently no formal, organised way of sharing food, though I do have dreams of this being a reality. We have a community group for our specific street; it’s very small scale at the moment and not everyone is involved. However, I have a strong vision for how we could live as a community within planetary boundaries and build connection in the process. I think because of this vision, I could imagine this story. My front garden was really paved over by previous owners and has high hedges which are great for wildlife although it is not covered in raised beds, as in my story. I do, however, have pots growing food and space for wild plants to grow. Many of the other gardens in my street have been gravelled over to create a low maintenance garden. This, of course, creates a space almost barren of life. It is a practical decision that people have made to make their life easier or because they have not got the mobility to tend a garden. Often this is an older member of the community living alone and, often, isolated. These spaces, seem to me, to be a wasted resource and it’s a modern travesty that loneliness is so prevalent. Instead, as in my story they could be returned to green spaces, providing healthy food to the community and company for the homeowner. Jim, in my story, really did live in our street until recently. When I was researching my story, I found evidence that suggested we could actually provide 50% of our food needs in the UK just by using the gardens we already have.

When I thought about how we could create a woodland environment within our urban residential areas, front gardens were an obvious possibility when setting my story in my street. It’s true they are mostly used as a parking space with almost every household owning one, two or sometimes three vehicles. This means there is very little biodiversity in these gardens but there is space. Space that could be used differently. I don’t think that in around 10 years’ time we will be existing in a car free society, but I can definitely imagine a lot less cars. Currently cars dominate, not just the space in front of houses, but also, of course, the road itself. This is a barrier to human connection and safe outside community play for children, so I wanted to transform the street from a place for cars to a place for people. If I was to still keep some cars, I would have to work out where they would go. So, I used my exact locality for the answer. There is a petrol station a short walk away and next to it a carpark for some neighbourhood shops. If we don’t need petrol, as fossil-fuelled vehicles will no longer exist, and if there is a solution for getting to the local shops that doesn’t involve hopping in the car then this frees up these two areas to be the neighbourhood car storage instead of our front gardens.

In my story people are freed up from having to work so hard to earn money as many things are shared. I have imagined that instead people might, in the main, work part time but also share their skills with their community for free. Previously, I was a primary school teacher so I envisage that my community contribution could be within the education/childcare/learning facilitator area (which I call the childcare hub). The current education system in this country is problematic for so many children and young people, so I have used my knowledge of how children learn to create a different form of education to the mainstream that is, of course, happening within democratic schools and settings and often within home education already.

There is a community book swap in our street. A beautifully made, water-tight outside cupboard where people can take books for free or donate books they no longer want. This has been a popular feature for many years now along with sharing surplus produce, a regular seed share in spring and a free coats event in autumn. I dream of extending these ideas to include community benches where people can sit and chat, clothes swishes happening regularly, communal space for children to play and other little cupboards, sheds or maybe people’s garages being transformed into toy exchanges, community shops and places to get and give pre-loved clothing.

5. What are the biggest barriers to living the future you describe?

Some of the ideas I’ve described would need a systematic change led by the government such as changing the way we are taxed, car tax being replaced by bus tax for example and I don’t know of this being considered by any government. Some need companies (or perhaps a cooperative) to take them on such as the regular bus service. I think there is a general lack of collective imagination within government and the general population. We have all been so conditioned to think capitalism is the only way to live and we tend to live very individualised lives. This often leads to a lack of capacity to create change. In general, everyone is working hard to put food on the table, raise their own children, care for their own family, keep up with running a household and, maybe, even have a social life! It’s exhausting but great for keeping the capitalist system going. Tired people are often unconscious consumers buying easy, convenience food, impulse buying or shopping to make them feel better. I’m not blaming anyone; we’re trapped in this system making it hard to create a different future.

6. And how do we overcome them?

System change is fundamental in addressing so many issues; however, this is difficult (but not impossible) for individuals to achieve. It has been suggested that my story should be shared with Zack Polanski (leader of the Green Party) so maybe I should do that as a step towards expanding the collective imagination. However, I think the main way to overcome the barriers is to start where we are at in our own community and make a shift, however small, to changing the culture and way of life. I started off, about 6 years ago, putting out a table of books at the front of my house for people to take or give books. I had to run out and get them in when it rained, which living in England is frequent! This was my starting point. The idea was simply to encourage reusing resources and to make a start on building community. Perhaps this could be possible for people reading this. I have a strong vision of how it could be but do lack capacity, with everything else going on in life, to fully realise it yet. I would say, if you are inspired to make a change in your street just start somewhere, do what you can and get other people on board, a Facebook or WhatsApp group is a good way to communicate with your neighbours. Almost all the ideas I wrote about in my story could be created in a grassroots way by a community of a few people. As change starts to happen other people will see and many more people will want to get involved. Change from the bottom up rather than top-down governmental change is not only possible but it is how most social change has previously occurred. Major changes have been created by individuals working together throughout history. Lacking in capacity myself, as a midlife aged mother of two, I think the elders in our community could be key. The wise older people often lack a role in our society, but they could well be the leaders in this. We need to give people the new stories and help them see beyond the myth of individualism and capitalism being the only way. This role is being fulfilled by Thrutopian writing. It’s giving us all a new way of thinking through to a better future by expanding our collective imagination. One thing is for sure, most of us do want the same thing: a better future and the amazing thing is we can all start right now by simple acts like sharing this writing, saying hello to a neighbour, reading another post here on Welcome to Thrutopia, following @eco.friendly.street on Instagram (where I share ideas from my street), sowing a seed or putting some books you have read out on your garden wall or apartment corridor for neighbours to enjoy.

7. Advice for anyone struggling to find hope in our current times?

I think struggling to find hope is a natural, normal thing and there are days when I feel like this. Personally, I limit my exposure to bad news stories. I am a highly sensitive person and easily get overwhelmed, scared for the future and feel the pain of other living things. I’m not saying put your head in the sand but don’t overwhelm your nervous system. Get to know yourself and when it’s a good time to find out more about what is going on in the world and when it’s not. If you have a menstrual cycle, it’s very likely that you will feel more sensitive to the problems in our world during menstruation and this might be a time to spend less time on social media and more time focusing on yourself. If you don’t have a menstrual cycle, you could track the moon and during the dark, new moon give yourself some time to disconnect and rest.

Above and beyond this, I’d recommend noticing the awe and wonder in nature that is there every day. Most of us live very busy lives and with constant entertainment and information being provided by screens it can be very easy to not stop and notice, but this connection can really fuel hope. The sort of things I’d suggest is next time you see a beautiful sky stop and look for more than a fleeting moment. Take it in. Feel how it makes you feel. You can do something similar completing everyday tasks such as listening to bird song whilst hanging out the washing or instead of automatically getting your phone out when waiting for someone instead look out the window, if possible, or simply observe what is in the room. I know some places are easier to connect with nature than others but even in a city, where you might need to crane your neck to see the sky the natural world is still all around us.

Finally, I’d say connect with others who care and inspire. Subscribe to writers here on Substack, talk to people in your community, get to know your own neighbours maybe even start a community group for your street, like I did. Remember there are lots of good and amazing, simple and seemingly insignificant acts happening every moment. All are valid and are contributing towards a better future.

__________________

Read more of Sarah’s work at www.rhubarbandrunnerbeans.co.uk

It’s Monday morning and I step outside my house, pausing for a moment to breath in the fresh air. A bumble bee darts in front of me, busily collecting nectar, nipping from dandelion to dandelion. It’s strange to think that this used to be the start of the working week for most people. I recall all that rushing around, jumping into cars to sit in congested traffic and smile at the scene in front of me. This year it’s my turn to grow lettuce and it’s everywhere in my sunny front garden. It was paved over by previous owners but I have worked with the people in my street, over the past few years, to create raised beds covering most of the space. They are brimming with salad leaves mixed in with the wild flowers the bumble bee is enjoying. Of course, I can’t eat all this myself, that’s not the intention. I grab some boxes and bags and harvest rocket, baby spinach and cos as well as some dandelion leaves. I load them up into my trolley and pull it along the pavement towards the Community Shop. I’m not sure why we call it that, it’s really a community share. Different households grow different food then every week we meet and share the produce. It’s an arrangement we’ve had for several years now and is replicated out in each street, village or apartment block across the country, providing, on average, 50% of each household’s food. It’s become quite a sociable occasion and a time to be amazed at what we’ve achieved, and there’s also some bragging from those who might have grown the biggest cabbage or cauliflower; all good natured (I think!).

The food sharing is attended by most people as, like I said, this provides around half of our food. If someone happens to be busy, they’ll make a list and the produce is collected for them and left on their doorstep, same for anyone whose mobility makes this task difficult, though usually they’re helped by a neighbour to get there.

As I walk along the pavement, I pass oak and hawthorn, rowan and beech all coming on well since they were planted in the 2020’s. The majority are in resident’s front gardens. It took a while to shift away from the culture of front gardens essentially being a drive-way to park one, two or even, in some cases, three cars. Some people weren’t keen to shift away from having their car parked so conveniently in front of their house. I think, quite rightly, many were worried because historically public transport has been unreliable and expensive. However, now we have the joy of, almost, car-free streets. Vehicles are parked at the edge of our neighbourhood on the site of an old petrol station and shopping centre carpark, it’s an easy 10 minute stroll to get there or there is a free public bus (we pay bus tax instead of car tax now) that loops regularly around the neighbourhood and you can hop off at the carpark. However, these cars are only used for leaving town (though most people use the bus or train) and hardly anyone owns a car now, it’s just not needed. Instead, a car cooperative was set up for our district and residents can simply hire cars when needed. Thinking about how much money I used to spend on my vehicle makes me remember why I needed to work so hard just to make ends meet. Now, like most people, I work part-time in paid employment and the other half I focus on the volunteering tasks needed in our community. For me, that’s mostly growing food but, as a primary school teacher in a previous life, I also do a couple of mornings volunteering for the childcare hub. Some children attend school (this is also part-time) others are educated within our community. I have about 10 children who I look after twice weekly and provide activities for them based on their interests and the, thankfully, newly understood approach of how children learn and thrive. I say ‘newly understood’ but I know many of us, particularly teachers and parents knew for a long time that the National Curriculum of the 2020’s, and of previous decades, was not fit for purpose. Finally, the Citizen’s Assembly (which became permanent and independent in 2025) made proposals about education based on research on how children learn in consultation with leading practitioners in the field of consent-based and democratic education as well as parents and, of course, children. This was implemented by the government and is open for review this year but the success and happiness of our young people makes it look likely that this will be here to stay.

As I almost get to the bottom of the road, children are playing amongst the trees and I wave to them as a I pass. The trees have made suburbia more like a woodland and most fencing and walls between front gardens have been removed now making a long communal space running along the edge of both sides of our street. Each ‘garden’ is still owned by the homeowner and maintained by them. As people move in or out of the area they simply sign an agreement specifying what their land can be used for. Some people have had their garden transformed into a community growing space, this tends to be older residents. It seems to be working really well actually. Those front gardens that had been gravelled over to create a low-maintenance garden are generally a relic from the past now and have been transformed into community gardens. I was speaking to one of my neighbours, Jim, the other day and he was saying how much he loves to have his garden used in this way. Not only does he look out onto a beautiful space where baren gravel used to dominate he now sees people almost every day when it used to be more like weekly. He’ll go out and chat to the community garden workers as well as keep them fuelled in cups of tea and coffee! He’s enjoying the company of his community so much he’s even thinking of joining the Elder/Younger Lodging Scheme where older members of the community rent out a spare bedroom to a young adult. A few people, like me, already had established hedges so we’ve retained those for nesting birds, pollinating insects (there’s lots of brambles and ivy) carbon sequestration and food, such as blackberries. We didn’t have to plant brambles as, most people who garden know, they are simply provided by nature! Instead of fighting nature and continually taking nature out of gardens the culture has slowly changed and most people now seem to see living in a natural environment the norm. Although my garden has hedges on both sides, it’s open at the front and I’ve got a bench people are free to sit on and a book swap for taking, donating or exchanging books. Other gardens house the Community Shop, children’s play area, Clothes Swish Shed, toy exchange or a social space.

Then within minutes, I’m at our community food share. I must get some potatoes, we’re almost out of them but otherwise I just pick from what’s there, a box full is enough for my family of four and we’ll devise meals with the contents.

It’s 2034 and I live in Exmouth, Devon, UK

.

While I’m on the subject of mothers, that’s what I’m here for. I want to complain. This goes to all you mothers out there. You’re not bringing your daughters up properly. Livvy doesn’t play with me much, but when she does – picture the scene:

‘Barbie, Barbie, come and see,’ says Skipper.

I’m made to pogo across the carpet. ‘What is it, Skipper?’ (I’m beginning to hate Skipper.)

‘I know, let’s go on holiday.’

My first thought is, great, I get to wear my Tropical Barbie outfit with matching towel, pink sunglasses and radio (I prefer the word transistor, it harks back to a time when girls were girls). And I can show off my perfect body. No panicking that I need to lose ten pounds in a day and a half. I don’t even need to breathe in.

‘Let’s go to the Brazilian rainforest,’ says Skipper.

‘What about Spain,’ I say, ‘or Barbados?’

Livvy and Skipper overrule me. Safari Barbie it is – zebra striped top, pink vest and sneakers, and off we go. One of Livvy’s many faults is that she has no imagination, so she pulls up the rainforest on YouTube and chooses a cast of extras from her box of cut out figures. There follows the longest thirty minutes of my life. We are greeted by near naked women with bosoms that are – variable. And yet they don’t hunch or hide. There’s no hint of envy or competition in their eyes when they look at me. They’re welcoming and curious. They try to help as my sunglasses keep falling off.

But I feel pointless. I mean, that’s what I’m for, to make you feel inadequate. That didn’t come out right – I’m there to give you an ideal to strive for. Skipper is getting too much attention. I wave my pointy hand. ‘Girls, girls,’ I say, above the chatter. ‘Want to know who first thought of Brazilians? Me of course.’ I don’t think they get it. ‘The Hollywood is better, but the Brazilian is a good first step.’ Silence. ‘You know, smooth, down there.’ More giggling.

One old girl is eyeing my chest. That’s more like it. That gappy grin is probably a mask for envy. I lift my top to give her an idea of perfection. ‘My anti-nipple campaign hasn’t taken off yet,’ I explain, ‘but it will when women start to see the advantages. Just think, no more breast or bottle guilt-tripping, just, ‘Sorry, no nipples, pass the bottle.’’

The crone pats the ground beside her. I don’t want to get that cosy, but Livvy plonks me down with my arms and legs sticking out stiffly in front of me. The old girl unfolds her limbs and copies me. She seems to think it’s hilarious. Again it’s down to me to educate. ‘Cat-walk Barbie,’ I tell her, ‘is more posable. But on the whole it’s best to avoid movement. What does bending equal? You’ve got it (she hadn’t) –wrinkles. Look at your knuckles – ugly, elbows – not nice. Think immobile, think smooth.’

The tribals offer us some white slop to eat. I say, ‘Let’s have a pizza party.’ Skipper translates – I don’t know where she learned tribal languages. She has a secret life I think. More giggles. Never mind, at least they’ve seen perfection. There’s no going back now, the seed is sown.

Next thing we’re back in the air. Livvy has enough imagination to make a whooshing noise, clip a cocktail into my hand and a book in Skipper’s. ‘Next stop Myanmar,’ says Skipper.

‘Do they have shops?’

‘Yes.’

I settle comfortably into my seat. ‘That’s alright then. They’ll have heard of me.’

‘Not where we’re going.’ She leans towards me. ‘Do I see venom in those blue eyes?’

I would like to pinch her, instead I lower my sunglasses and stare out of the window. I see the mountain tops before the clouds. We’re going down.

Still no sign of a beach. We’re in a church thing. Churches – useful wedding backdrops, otherwise, big thumbs down. I want to cover my ears to shut out the dreary chanting but without elbows my hands end up above my head. I fiddle with my transistor till Skipper takes it. It’s not respectful she says. The place is full of men with shaven heads and identical pink robes – no wait. I see chest swellings, bosoms. These baldies are women. ‘What are they doing?’ I say.

‘Cultivating inner beauty,’ says Skipper.

‘Well what’s the point of that? Intestines are intestines. Beauty comes from without, and for that you need hair.’

I pogo to the altar, grab one woman by the hand and pull her out of that cross-legged position. It’s makeover time. I lean over the bald head and drape my hair around her face. ‘Now isn’t that better? Pink is good but we need to lose the draping.’ I pull the robes tight and twist them behind her. ‘Look, you’ve got a waist, and a bust. Not quite the 44, 16, 34 ideal but it’s a start.’ The woman examines her new shape with a peaceful gleam in her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t look so perfectly content if I were you,’ I advise her, ‘you’ve a way to go yet.’

What’s that I hear? A helicopter. Skipper and I run outside. It’s Action Man. Skipper gets to him first and starts a play fight. That’s alright, it gives me time to change. I’ll dazzle him with my fashionable fuchsia glitter glam outfit. When I get back, they’re rolling around in the mud. I don’t really want him near my dress but he says that’s okay, he’s done what he came to do and gets back in the chopper.

Back on the plane. Skipper asks me why I like to make girls feel insecure. I tell her why. Listen up, mothers: insecurity is not a dirty word. It’s the best gift you can give your daughters. Motivation is the precious child of insecurity. Trust me, without it they’d be slobbing around eating doughnuts, or up a tree with the nearest man in combats.

Slam dunk. I’m not just a perfect face and body. Do your worst, Livvy. Barb’s on a mission now.

As we land, Skipper says brightly: ‘Here we are in Indonesia and there’s the Mentawai tribe.’ I’m forced to follow her into a hut on stilts decorated with monkey skulls. She says, ‘Hello, I’m Skipper and this is Barbie.’

After that the conversation flags. ‘Do you have a crush on anyone?’ I say.

These women look more promising, they’ve made an effort with beads, but what is happening to that girl?

‘It’s a traditional beauty ritual,’ says Skipper.

‘Sharpening her teeth with a rock and a chisel? There are better ways to prep for veneers.’

‘She doesn’t want veneers.’

It’s lucky I’m here. I push past Skipper. ‘This vampire vogue is just a fad,’ I tell the girl. ‘Bleach is all you need for teeth, and stay off the food – that goes without saying.’

‘Ah,’ the girl says. That’s all she can say with her jaw wedged open like that but I’m sensing another convert here.

‘You won’t catch vampires wearing pink,’ I say, ‘or real women wearing black.’

‘Twilight Eclipse Barbie,’ Skipper taunts. ‘The only one with style. And the Edward doll – yum-yum slurp.’

There are times – very few, granted – when I could use another facial expression.

‘Are you constipated?’ says Skipper.

I graciously overlook the comment. ‘Eclipse was like all the other pretenders: a here today, gone tomorrow aberration.’

‘Actually, she runs a vintage clothes shop called No More Pink.’

‘Is that where you bought that thing?’ I point pointily at her T-shirt.

‘Nope, this is organic hemp.’

‘Hemp – some sort of weed? Have we run out of polyester?’

‘I wish.’

That confirms what I’ve always known. My sister is disordered. Sometimes she wears the same clothes for more than a day. I’ve even seen her emerge from Action Man’s shoe box dressed in his camouflage after a night of goodness knows what noisy games. Ah well, boyish by name, boyish by nature.

It’s time to intervene in the teeth sharpening. ‘Forget this fad,’ I say, flashing my white vinyls. ‘Real beauty is timeless. I’ve hardly changed since 1959. I was then, and always will be, the standard.’ I grab the dentist’s chisel and throw it into the big leafy things.

Skipper butts in. ‘Ever thought about the things you make women do?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like having their faces peeled off, pulled up and stitched back on; like having their boobs cut open and stuffed; like having their smiles blocked with neurotoxin, like having fat vacuumed out of their...’

‘That’s not the same at all. It’s worth the effort to look like me. That’s what women are for.’

Skipper says. ‘Sorry, Sis, I can’t handle any more of your BARBaric bullshit,’ and she settles down to chat with the tribals.’ Yawn. It’s time for another outfit. I return in a pink gingham playsuit with floppy hat and wait for the compliments. No one looks at me so I clear my throat and say, ‘I’m back. What are you talking about?’

Skipper rolls her eyes and says, ‘Arat Sabulangan.’

I say, ‘Speakee American.’

And off she goes: beliefs, blah, spiritual, blah, rainforest, blah, respect, blah, nature, blah.

I say, ‘Who likes my hat?’

The tribals are leaving. Skipper hugs them and says goodbye. Action Man calls out to her, ‘Ready, Skip?’

I tilt my hat and pout. ‘Where is everyone going?’

‘These guys have a forest to care for and we’re off to save the coral.’ She walks away leaving me with the monkey skulls.

‘Please yourselves,’ I shout after them, ‘but coral is an inferior shade of pink.’ Hah!

I know, I know, she means the other coral. ‘Go save some crummy sea critter then,’ I mutter.

‘You monster,’ says Livvy, in her own voice.

Here we go again. She goes to her Facebook group page. It’s called I hate Barbie, – now do you get how twisted she is? You’d think a twenty-two year old would be more mature. She posts my latest holiday snaps and a little account of our trip. In the next hour, 33,087 people click on ‘like’. That just shows, they all agree with me.

2024

Postscript from Livvy

The fastest growing market for cosmetics in the US are 8-12 year old girls. Hooked by social media and enabled by their mothers, they collectively spend $40m per month on packaged chemicals.

Mimicking their elders, pre-teen influencers apply anti-ageing bioactives to their perfect but not good enough faces #getreadywithme

Cases of contact dermatitis are rising in this age group.

‘Personal care’ products generate 120 billion units of trash annually.

None of the world’s ten largest ‘beauty’ companies have set an independently validated net zero target.

2026

Florida

Skipper and Alexander (prev Action Man) swim towards the damaged reef with their basket of newly grown coral from the nursery trees. They gently attach their thousandth implant of new life to the rocks and wish it well. Their eyes smile through their goggles as they slo mo punch the water and high five.

2028

Livvy and Skipper have helped 1.8 million women to unfollow toxic influencers. Livvy said, ‘We need feminine energy out there transforming the world, not indoors staring in a mirror.’

Popular Skipperisms

You were not born to be a decoration – unleash!

Don’t let the world shape you. Shape the world.

My life, my data. Back off.

Unfollow, unfollow, unfollow.

#purpose #adventure #fun

2035

Barbie has slipped sideways on plinth 73, Tragic Toxic Trivia gallery of the Copenhagen Museum of Irrelevancies.

She was kind enough to answer some questions about herself, Thrutopia and her writing more generally.

How did you discover Thrutopia as a genre?

I heard Manda Scott speak at a Mslexia Salon event, which led me to sign up for her Thrutopian Masterclass. I have long been deeply concerned about the damage we are doing to the Earth, but the pandemic heightened my concern and my desire to do something…

I really loved your combination Irish mythology and positive ideas for future change. What is the inspiration for this story?

I wanted to write a short story that showed a way to bring about positive changes in agricultural practices in Ireland (agriculture is the biggest contributor to Ireland's carbon emissions). If at all possible, I wanted to do this in a way that would not alienate farmers, and using a mischievous and benign version of the Púca struck me as a way to achieve this end.

What is your writing process like?

All or nothing. There are times when I'm writing every day, and times – like now, when I am focused on getting my novel out into the world – when all I write down is my dreams.

What do you find helpful for writing? And conversely, what gets in the way of writing?

I think the biggest help is taking part in a generative writing group, either as a participant or as a workshop facilitator. That keeps me continually close to the page, and sparking with new ideas. What gets in the way? Life.

Is there a question you wish I’d asked you? If so, feel free to answer it here!

I suppose what am I going to write next? And the answer is, I don't know. I enjoyed the process of researching and writing LeafLight Moon, and I think I'd like to write another research-based story. I made a couple of attempts to write a Thrutopian novel, but they never got past the first 20,000 words. I think I need to free my Muse from trying to achieve an end – it doesn't suit me, my imagination resists feeling corralled by an objective. I have a sense, as this novel no longer needs my attention, that some new creation may be stirring. And so I attend to my dreams…

How can readers find out more about you and your stories?

My own website is monicacorish.ie. My novel will be published through our own imprint, Púca Books, which has its own brand-new Substack page. I'm not active on social media, but I am looking forward to populating the Substack with back-stories and research and "Easter eggs" and deleted scenes from LeafLight Moon.

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Many thanks to Monica for letting us share her story this month! To our readers: I hope you’ve enjoyed it. If you need to catch up, you can find Part One here and Part Two here. I also believe that LeafLight Moon is now out in the world; there are links to several retailers on Monica’s website, so do go and investigate if you’re interested in reading more of her work.

The Púca’s Share by Monica Corish

(Part two of two, in which the Púca hitches a ride in a car, and the ideas begin flowing. We pick up where we left off, with farmer Vinny telling his daughter, Maeve, that he’s thinking of giving up the farm.)

“My carbon emissions have barely shifted, and I can’t do what Jim’s doing. It would stick in my craw. Maybe it’s time I got out.”

Maeve was stunned into silence. The tune came to an end. She turned off the radio.

“There’ll be a carbon tax on farms before long, and a cull on herds with high emissions. I give it another year, two at the outside. I’d rather be gone out of farming than see that happen.”

Maeve steered toward the hard shoulder. Púca leapt into her mind. Keep driving, don’t wake him out of the dream.

She blinked, drove on. “I could do it.”

“What?”

“I could bring the emissions way down. It would take me two, maybe three years.”

Vinny stared at her.

“Don’t look so surprised, Da. I’ve tried to talk about this before, but you never wanted to listen.”

“You mean well, Maeve, but –”

“You’d listen if I was your son.”

“Ah no, pet, that’s not true.”

“It is true. It’s true as far as the farm is concerned.”

“Maybe so.” Vinny shifted awkwardly in his seat. “We were always glad of you, Maeve. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know.”

A car came toward them, weaving over the white line, headlights blazing. Maeve slowed to let it pass.

“A young woman shouldn’t be tied to the land,” Vinny said. “It’s not natural.”

Maeve threw her eyes to heaven. “Nonsense. There are plenty of successful women farmers.”

“That aside, you’d never make it work financially. If you were to go all green, you’d be bankrupt within a few years.”

“Jim isn’t bankrupt.”

“No, but Jim’s farm is different –”

“I keep the accounts, Da. I know it can be done. There are lots of grants available, if you know how to work the system. If the farm was in my name, I could study for the Green Cert and qualify for the Young Farmers’ grant.”

“Now that’s a fine idea.” Vinny looked at her admiringly. “I could transfer the deeds to you, but we could manage it together.”

“That would absolutely not work. You’d be grumbling over my shoulder the whole time.”

You’re well named, Púca thought. You remind me of Maeve in all her queenly glory.

“So what would you have me do, in this grand scheme of yours?”

“Reach out to Mam.”

“You’re away with the fairies, girl. She’d never take me back.”

“She might, you know. If you –”

Vinny crossed his arms over his chest. “And anyway, she’s not the woman I married.”

“No, she’s not. Everyone changes, Da. Everyone except you. You expected her to stay frozen in time.”

A fox ran across the road, its tail feathery in the light. Maeve swerved.

“Did I hit it?”

“No, you’d have felt the thump.” Vinny stared through the windshield at the veiled moon. “So that’s me, is it? Frozen in time?

“That’s you, Da.”

They rounded a bend and saw blue lights flashing. A Garda checkpoint.

“Are you under the limit?” Vinny asked.

“Of course.” Maeve slowed and rolled down her window. “Goodnight, Sergeant.”

“It’s yourself, Maeve.” He stooped to look in the window, tipped his hat to Vinny. “Evening, Vinny.”

“Evening, Sarge.”

“Be careful on the road, Maeve. There are a few mad lunatics out tonight.”

“I will. Thanks, Sergeant.”

The lights of another car shone in the rear-view mirror. Maeve accelerated and pulled away.

“Bloody drink-driving laws,” Vinny grumbled. “They’re draining the life out of the countryside.”

“The problem with you, Da, is that you want everything to stay exactly as it was when you were young.”

“That’s the problem with me, is it?”

“It is. You don’t argue about climate change because you don’t believe in it, you argue about it because it’s forcing you to change, and that’s the one thing you can’t stand. You used to be king of the castle, but there’s a new game now, and you don’t know how to play it.”

Púca leapt back into Vinny’s mind. A chessboard of castles and kings, all crumbling into dust. Worms and windmills. Sand between his toes, a long beach and a blue sky, his wife by his side.

“You really think she’d have me back?” Vinny asked.

“She might. You’d have to court her again.”

“And what, live in Wexford?”

“You love the house in Wexford.”

“I do.”

“You could play golf, and fish, and tell tall tales in the pub.”

Vinny grinned, then frowned. “If she won’t have me back, I’d be in the house with you.”

“I’d never talk to you about the farm. Jim would let me set up a desk in his office. He’s got plenty of room.”

“You like him, don’t you?”

She nodded. “We’re good friends. I admire what he’s doing.”

“If you and Jim got married, you could join the farms and more than double the yield. Economies of scale, that’s the way to go.”

“Da!” She screeched off the road onto the hard shoulder. “Stop it, right now!”

“What?”

“Listen to me. If you want out, you either sell the farm to a stranger, or give it to me as my inheritance, whole and entire.” She set the hazard lights blinking. “And if Mam won’t have you back, because you’re an argumentative gobshite, then I’ll build a wee bungalow for you. At the far end of the long field.” She glared at him. “I mean it.”

Vinny held in a smile. Ever since she was a little girl, smiling at Maeve’s anger only added fuel to her fire. Púca conjured the new game in his mind. Windmills for ladders, worms for snakes, untidy meadows, a field of solar panels.

“You feel like you’re being made to change,” Maeve said. “I don’t, I want to change. More than anyone else, we farmers have a chance to make a difference. It’s not just about reducing emissions, we could –”

She lifted her hands off the wheel, grasping for words. Púca fed her a vision.

“We could leave it better for everyone, for people and midges and corncrakes and dragonflies. Between me and Jim, we could set up long corridors for foxes and hares and pine martens. If there were enough of us, we could criss-cross Ireland with corridors of wildness.”

Vinny burst out laughing. “Corridors of wildness, is it? If that’s the way it’s going, then I’m glad to be a dinosaur.”

The full moon broke through the clouds.

“Look,” Maeve pointed. “The hare in the moon.”

“Don’t be daft. It’s a man.”

“Sometimes it’s a hare, Da, and sometimes it’s a man, and sometimes it’s both at once.”

Vinny’s heart swelled with love. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I will. I’ll call the solicitor in the morning, and I’ll write to your mother. I’ll go down for a few days. I’ll stay in the hotel in Rosslare.”

Púca flew up and landed on his forehead.

Vinny swatted. “Damn fly.”

Maeve opened a window.

Púca flew out and landed on the long acre. She became a hare, ears erect in the moonlight. The red lights of the car disappeared around a bend in the road. Púca nibbled on a dandelion.

Thanks for reading! Just a reminder that if you’re looking for part one of the story, it’s here. Next week, Monica Corish will talk a little about the inspiration for the story and Thrutopia more generally. In the meantime, if you have any comments, we’d love to know what you thought.

The Púca’s Share by Monica Corish

(Part one of two, in which the Púca, a mischievous shape-changing spirit from Irish folklore, does some mischief in a pub…)

Púca pulled her hat down to cover her hairy ears. She checked her reflection in the window of the pub, then pushed open the door. A handful of women were sitting by an open fire, laughing and drinking wine. Three men sat at a table closer to the door, one old, one young, one middle-aged. The middle-aged man was spoiling for an argument. Púca shifted shape, became male. The barman glanced up, blinked, returned to polishing the glasses.

“Jameson and a bag of crisps.”

“Ice?”

“No, thanks.”

A wide-screen television blared violent colours. Unnatural blues and greens, red and yellow players chasing a ball. As he walked past, Púca brushed against the television with his shoulder. The screen fizzed and died.

“Mick,” the young man said, “the telly’s on the blink.”

The barman sauntered over, twiddled a knob, turned the television off and on, checked the plug. “It must be the fuse. I don’t have a spare.”

“Never mind,” the old man said. “I like the quiet.”

Púca sat a few feet away, close enough to listen, maybe to join in.

“No green gobshites are going to cull my cows,” the middle-aged man said. “That shower would have us all living in the dark ages.”

“Come on, Vinny,” the young man said. “You’ve seen the reports. There’ll be no need for a cull if –”

“If what, Jim?” Vinny was red-faced. “If I don’t inseminate my cows? A few less every year? Let the herd wither away?”

“You could do that,” Jim said. “But there are plenty of other ways to cut emissions. You could breed for less methane. You could switch to one of the new fertilisers and sow multi-species grasses and clover. You could make the shift toward agroforestry, plant hazel and oak and –”

“Listen to you, college boy, with your diploma in environmental waffle! You’ll have me setting up bee hotels in my hedgerows next. I’m a dairy farmer, not a feckin’ forest ranger.”

Jim shrugged. “Each to their own.”

“It’s all nonsense anyway,” Vinny blustered. “The climate is always changing. Always has, always will.”

“Whisht,” the old man said. “That’s the drink talking, Vinny. The growing seasons are out of whack, grass growth is down, there’s too much rain in winter, too little in summer. You know all that.”

“Maybe so, but it’ll change again without us having to twist ourselves into knots. And anyway –”

“Mick, could you turn on the radio?” A woman’s voice.

Púca felt a thread of exasperated tenderness stretching between her and Vinny. Daughter to father.

The barman pressed a button. The aching lament of an uileann pipe filled the air.

“Port na bPúcaí,” the old man whispered. “Turn it up, Mick.”

Púca conjured a vision into the quiet: A field of haycocks, the twilight buzz of midges, the swoop of swifts, the chant of a corncrake.

The old man spoke, his voice dreamy. “Do you remember when we were young lads driving to dances, the windscreen would be speckled and splattered with midges? You’d have to turn on the wipers to clear them. And the corncrake calling all night long, looking for a mate. Like ourselves at the dance, all looking for a mate.”

The men grinned and glanced shyly at the women. Vinny blew his nose.

“Heaney wrote a poem,” Jim said, “about how the fairies gave that tune to a fiddler on the Blaskets.”

That was me, Púca wanted to say. I gave him that tune, and I’m no flittery fairy. It was a bad day for the daoine sídhe, the day they started calling us the little people.

“When I was a lad,” the old man said, “we used to leave a share for the Púca at harvest time. Do any of you remember that?”

“I do,” the barman said. “We’d strip a few stalks out of each haycock and leave it in the field. And there was something about Halloween. What was that?”

“If you left a gift for the Púca at Samhain, he’d bless your harvest and do his mischief elsewhere.”

“Like trick or treat?” Jim asked.

“I suppose so.” The old man took a sip from his pint. “That’s what you’re doing, Jim. You’re leaving a share for the Púca.”

Jim grinned. “Maybe I am. Bee hotels and all.”

Vinny glowered.

“Like fairy gardens.” Vinny’s daughter laid a hand on his shoulder. The other women were finishing their drinks and putting on their coats. “It was you told me about that, Da. You used to say we should always leave a corner of the garden for the fairies.”

“That’s it, Maeve,” the old man said. “A patch of wild in every garden.”

“And no need for fairy doors or painted toadstools.” Maeve fished Vinny’s car keys out of his pocket. “Time for home, we’ve to be up early to milk.”

“I’m grand to drive.”

“No you’re not.”

“Time for us all to go home,” the old man said.

Púca walked to the back of the bar, pushed open the door to the toilets, shifted shape, became a fly. He slipped back into the bar and settled on Vinny’s shoulder.

Outside, the full moon struggled to shine through layers of heavy cloud. Maeve pressed the car key. Amber lights blinked.

The radio came on as she pulled out of the car park. “Port na bPúcaí again. It’s like that tune is following us.” She reached to change the channel.

“No, leave it be. It reminds me of your mother.”

Maeve glanced at him. “You never talk about her.”

“And I won’t tonight.”

Vinny closed his eyes. Púca slipped inside his mind. A lonely chessboard, rigid squares, kings and castles, an abacus of calculations, profit and loss, time splintered into quarters. Púca wove a new game. Worms in place of snakes, windmills in place of ladders, a circular border, wild-flowers and bees and dragonflies. The vision slipped past Vinny’s defences, down into the twilight place where dreams take root.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it’s time I sold the farm.”

“What?”

“My carbon emissions have barely shifted, and I can’t do what Jim’s doing. It would stick in my craw. Maybe it’s time I got out.”

We’ll leave Vinny, Maeve and the Púca here for now. Join us next week to read the second half of the Púca’s tale! And please feel free to share the story or comment below to let us know what you thought.

Part Two is now live; click below to read!

If you’re not familiar with Rob Hopkins, you’re in for a treat. His first work, From What Is To What If, has inspired many people to begin building their dream towns.

His podcast From What Is To What’s Next invites people to time travel with him to the future and describe what they see. Also check out his website robhopkins.net for the latest town meetings.

Ten Ways to Fall in Love with the Future

By Lisa Richardson

Out now from Chelsea Green Publishing, Rob Hopkins’ How to Fall in Love with the Future: A Time Traveller’s Guide to Changing the World is playful and practical, rousing and urgent. Activism, he says, isn’t working, and maybe the reason we’ve failed has something to do with our relationship to the future.

Right now, our future has been “colonized by megalomaniacal billionaires, crushed by precariousness” – and that’s not cool.

I loved this book packed with interviews, examples and hints of what’s possible and have renewed admiration for those who’ve practiced this kind of thinking for a long time now (the futurist-pioneers!). How to Fall In Love with the Future is all the blueprint you need to start tinkering and time-travelling yourself. Take friends with you! The future needs all the time travelling imagineers we can get.

Taking a cue from Hopkins’ passion for immersive experiences to help activate our senses and potential, my review has morphed into a personal manifesto for becoming a time-traveller (and changing the world):

To help people cultivate a nostalgia for the future, Hopkins has been zipping back and forth in time with his friend Mr Kit, collecting sound samples for the Field Recordings from the Future project, so you can hear how beautiful things sound, just around the corner in 2030.

The point in activating your imagination is to be playful and have fun, which is why this book, while being both an urgent and relevant provocation, is also a genuine delight. Now who wants to unleash their longing and come time-travelling with me?

Lisa Richardson is an Australian-Canadian newspaper columnist, essayist and community resilience advocate, based on the west coast of Canada on the unceded territory of the Lil’wat Nation, where she’s been annually voted “Pemberton’s Favourite Writer” since 2007. Co-founder of a local bike-powered farm celebration event, the Slow Food Cycle Sunday, instigator of an Active Hope Climate Squad, and organizer of the Secret Poetry Appreciation Society’s Poetry Pop-Up live poetry reading circles, she also offers journalling workshops and yoga classes in a range of settings from backcountry horse camps, to yoga retreats, public libraries, and wellness retreats for women firefighters, as part of her mission to learn how we become future-steaders, instead of future-stealers – collectively cultivating the tools, practices and patterns to bring forth a culture, and a world, we’d be proud to leave to future generations.7

I came to Thrutopia in despair. I wanted to be writing – and reading – works which would envision a viable future not only for my species, but for others and the earth as a whole. Yet I was entombed (it felt like) in dire reports and crises.

Then I opened my copy of Mslexia (Issue 94, 2022) and found an article by Manda Scott exploring a new term ‘Thrutopia’. My interest was immediately piqued, however, I had crime novels to write, so I didn’t do anything about it. When my publisher dumped me and my agent was taking her time over my latest submission, I thought, why not spend this time exploring? I turned to the Thrutopia Masterclass (which was ‘over’ but still available to watch) and found myself excited about writing again.

I learned that the term Thrutopia was initially coined in a blog by Rupert Read in 2017 in The Huffington Post:

In the same piece Read mentioned Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Dispossessed, as being an example of a Thrutopia novel before we had a label for the genre. I read The Dispossessed when I was a student in the 1980s and it had a huge impact on my world view, so to have Read cite it, felt like a coming home.

Thrutopia may be a new genre, but looking to the future and ‘visioning the politics and ecology of getting through’ has, I would suggest, always been the task of storytellers. As part of my voyage into Thrutopia, I thought it would be interesting to reacquaint myself with those who have gone before and discover what I can learn from them.

Since I still have my battered copy of The Dispossessed on my shelves, I started with Le Guin. And, as with any novel you’ve not read in a while, there are stand out moments which I remember with clarity and other parts which I have totally forgotten. I recall Shevek as a child playing at ‘prisons’ because they didn’t have any on his home world of Anarres. I remember – and remember approving of – the aspect of Anarres society which meant everyone pitched in with unskilled labour whatever their ‘day-job’ might be. And, indeed, when I worked for an international NGO for five years, this was an aspect of its culture too. Finally, I can always bring to mind the dramatic scene where Shevek gets drunk at an opulent party on Urras. Much of the other subtleties of the plot and the society building had faded, however. Intrigued, I pick it up once again and part the yellowed pages at chapter one. It starts:

This beginning had completely slipped my memory. I now reflect how talk of walls and borders still feels so contemporary.

Shevek’s journey from Anarres to Urras gives us both a view of what an anarchist society could be alongside a glaringly bold critique of an earth I think we’d all recognise. However, this is not a Utopia versus Dystopia story. It’s far more nuanced that that. The shortcomings and imperfections of Anarres are there. For example, some creatives feel stultified by what is considered acceptable and ‘patriotic’ artistic endeavours. A scary reference, perhaps, to regimes which try to silence protest through censorship, such as the Nazi designation of ‘degenerate’ art.

On his return to Anarres, Shevek realises things have to change on his home world, it is not the perfect society he thought it was. As Read says in his blog post in The Huffington Post:

Another novel which was defining to me and is sadly as prescient in its recent iterations as it was thirty-nine years ago is The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood (first published in 1985).

She talks about writing it in the chapter ‘Writing Utopia’ in the 1970-1989 section of her Curious Pursuits: Occasional writing (Virago 2006). Here Atwood says her work is ‘speculative’ rather than ‘science’ fiction. In The Handmaid’s Tale ‘nothing happens which the human race has not already done at some time in the past, or which it is not doing now, perhaps in other countries, or for which it has not yet developed the technology.’ (P85.)

This has, perhaps, become too oft quoted, but it’s worth pausing over once more. The Handmaid’s Tale is without doubt dystopian, and yet:

Atwood goes onto explain that the word Utopia does not mean ‘perfect society’ but ‘nowhere’. It has often been used sardonically, for example by Sir Thomas More as the title of his own sixteenth-century fictional discourse on government. Or satirically, for example by Jonathan Swift in his eighteenth-century Gulliver’s Travels. Swift claimed that he wrote Gulliver's Travels to ‘vex the world rather than divert it.’

In her essay, Atwood writes: ‘Both the Utopia and the Dystopia concern themselves with the designing of societies. There is some of the same pleasure in this, for the writer, that we used to get as children when we built sand cities, or dinosaur jungles from Plasticine... But in a Utopia you get to plan everything – the cities, the legal system, the customs, even facets of language. The Dystopian bad design is the Utopian good design in reverse – that is, we the readers are supposed to deduce what a good society is by seeing, in detail, what isn’t.’ (P86.)

It seems to me, Atwood could be talking about writing a Thrutopia. We are designing a society based on information about what we’ve done, we’re doing or could start doing tomorrow. This time in order to give the readers a sense of what is possible.

A Utopia may be nowhere, but the ‘topia’ part of Thrutopia means a physical place, we are not headed nowhere, we are headed somewhere. Rupert Read says emphatically that this ‘somewhere’ should be the earth: ‘This beautiful globe, this beautiful jewel’ (The Verb, BBC Radio 3, 2nd June 2023).

However, a younger writer has taken me away from the earth. Becky Chambers with her Wayfarers series has, I think, also explored Thrutopian themes, especially in Record of a Spaceborn Few (2018). The humans who have escaped the dying earth on the Exodus fleet, have had to create a less destructive culture which provides for everyone’s needs within a territory confined by metal structures floating in space. Chambers also draws on what’s already happening in our world. For example, there is the inspiration for Eyas, the ‘caretaker’ for those who die. Their bodies are composted in order to nourish the beds which grow food for the living. The ultimate gift of recycling. A process already being developed by the wonderfully named Katrina Spade (Human Composting | Ecological Death Care | Recompose)

I never thought I could be a fan of ‘aliens’ in stories until I met Chambers’ creations – though technically it is the humans who are aliens, coming from afar, having destroyed their own home world. Chambers’ pantheon – including the Grum, Aandrisk, Harmagians, Aeluons, Akaraks and (my particular favourite) Laru – bring to life different ways of being, in terms of, for example, gender, sexuality, and personal and societal organisation. Their attempts to work it out together pull strands from ‘what we’ve done, what we’re doing or could start doing tomorrow’ though not just from the human sphere, interweaving insights from the rest of the natural world, such as insects, plants, birds and animals other than hominids.

Wherever we base our Thrutopia writing, it is the characters which power it. Atwood says:

Which is a shame because I have a lot to say about how we process sewage!

But I have to agree with her, the characters have to sing with strengths, weaknesses, quirks and foibles. There has to be conflict as well as love and joy. Author David Nicholls said in his Desert Island Discs’ interview (BBC Radio 4, 21st June 2024) that writing about happiness is hard. And I do think that’s true. But reading a book with no conflict or (as my editor used to say) jeopardy is dull.

However, I diverge from Atwood when she says the story has to be ‘real’ at a ‘human and individual level’. Chambers has shown how the non-human are equally engaging. Individual suggests we are stuck with the hero or heroine quest journey. First postulated by American author Joseph Campbell in his book of comparative mythology The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949), the idea has become staple. It states that all stories must have one main character who, against all odds, reaches their ultimate goal, no doubt saving themselves, others and the earth while they are at it. Watch any US blockbuster disaster movie to see what I am talking about.

However, writer Sharon Blackie says we accept this as a truism at our peril. A psychologist with a background in mythology and folklore, Blackie says that what we require now is to create post-heroic journey. Protagonists in stories must be enmeshed in community, in the natural world, allies from both are crucial. She adds that the narrative should not be linear – action leading to consequence leading to action and so on – but rather spiralling. The Thrutopia Masterclass - Thrutopia).

I am on board with the former. I am attracted by the latter, but have yet to work out what a spiralling story might mean for my writing. Is it taking differing perspectives or having a timeline which loops back, changing with each iteration? Or something else? All this is still to be experimented with.

A Thrutopia imagines the transition from where we are now, to a future we want to inhabit. With this in mind, Ursula Le Guin’s short story ‘The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas’ (from her The Wind’s Twelve Quarters collection, first published in 1975) is not Thrutopian. I don’t think it’s even about the future. In my opinion, it’s about our now and how we are able to turn away from and tolerate the suffering of others as long as it underpins our own comfort and security.

It’s a very powerful piece. In response to it, author N.K. Jemison wrote ‘The Ones Who Stay and Fight’. In Um-Helat ‘inhabitants, simply, care for one another. That is a city’s purpose, they believe – not merely to generate revenue or energy or products, but to shelter and nurture the people who do these things.’ However, some become ‘infected’ by the violence and hatred of our world, and they have to be killed before they ‘contaminate’ others. Yet when one child falls prey, the hand of kindness is held out to her. Jemison’s narrator says:

And really that is what writing – and reading – Thrutopia is about. ‘If enough of us believe a thing is possible, then it becomes so.’

One thing which is an on-going talking point for the Thrutopia writers I have met, is how bad does the world have to get before a concerted effort will be made to turn the societal juggernaut in a different direction? Another writer I read back in the 1980s/1990s was Octavia E. Butler. In her Parable of the Sower, social order is breaking down at an alarming rate because of climate change and rampant capitalism. As one of her characters, Bankole, says:

I find the novel a hard read, there’s extreme violence, rape, cannibalism, suffering of all kinds. And in the middle of it all Lauren Oya Olamina is intent on creating her Earthseed community with a motley group of fellow travellers. ‘God is change,’ she says. And it is for humans to shape God ‘with forethought, care, and work; to educate and benefit their community...’ (P246.) It is only in the final few pages that this even seems faintly possible.

Yet, in an interview in Essence May 2000, Butler said her novel is about hope:

It seems to me, the hardest part of Thrutopia writing is bringing to life the transition period which links our now with the then to which we aspire. This is at the core of Manda Scott’s Any Human Power. It is, as far as I am aware, the first consciously Thrutopia novel to be traditionally published in the UK. By which I mean, Scott set out to write a book which encapsulats Read’s ‘definition’ of a story ‘about how to get from here to there’ and which envisions ‘the politics and ecology of getting through’.

The title comes from a quote by Le Guin: ‘Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings.’ Scott describes her novel as a route map. Echoing Atwood, she says: ‘Nothing here is new or particularly radical, all I have done is weave together threads of other people’s endeavours to craft a tapestry of possibility. You would take the same threads and weave something different.’ She adds the challenge: ‘Please do: we are all creators. We all step into the futures we have imagined for ourselves.’

Interestingly, Butler (writing in the early 1990s) sets her novel in 2024, whereas Scott sets the bulk of hers in 2023. Yet their visions of the state our world is in could not be more different. In Any Human Power, there is still at least a semblance of what might be recognised as ‘civilised’ society, though it could be said to be headed in the direction of The Parable of the Sower for much the same reasons.

All the writers I mention here are in accord with Atwood’s entreaty, driving their stories with diverse characters from across the generations. This, I think would have to be a solid starting point for any writer, whether Thrutopian or not.

I came to writing Thrutopia via despair. I’ve always thought I could use words – initially journalism, then fiction – to help create a ‘better’ world. In my twenties it was mostly inequalities which I wanted to address, more recently peace and the escalating environmental crises have come into focus. And yet as I approached my sixtieth birthday, I felt more and more powerless. It appeared that governments and big corporations were immune to any attempts to get them to move away from a destructive course and were deaf to the cries of the disenfranchised, desperate and quite frankly (like me) bewildered.

Writing became pointless. And yet, for all my life, writing has been a passion, a pleasure, a safeguard to my sanity. I didn’t know who I would be if I stopped.

What a joy it was, then, to discover a group of other writers who renewed my belief in the importance of story. As Atwood says in her 2010 essay ‘Literature and the Environment’:

What a delight also that through the Thrutopia Masterclass I heard testimonies from people who are actually doing things differently. Living and forging an alternative path. This so rarely breaks into the general news, it is like drinking a really fresh glass of water.

This is cheering for me personally, but can it be transformative for others, for society, for the world even? I don’t know the answer to this. My agent tells me what I am writing won’t sell and we have parted ways. Yet, on occasion, I feel more encouraged. I take some comfort – once again – from Ursula K. Le Guin. In her acceptance speech at the National Book Awards in 2014 she said:

I’m British, so claiming my writing is an art is hard, but I do want it to be purposeful.

But to what purpose? Sadly Le Guin died in January 2018, yet in the acceptance speech I’ve been quoting from, she left us with one possible direction of travel: