Coriander
Mild salt scent from the estuary mingled with root-sweet of damp earth, giving birth to dark green flora. Curiously, a sharp note of fragrant spice sang in the air—food being cooked, somewhere nearby. Cumin? No, much more complex, a whole chorus of aroma. My empty stomach rumbled, a gaping cavern. I hadn’t eaten since—since when?
“Walk straight down,” Carlos had said a mere two hours ago, white sailor’s uniform still unbuttoned, billowing around his muscled body in the dreamy half-light of his cabin. We’d foregone much of last night’s sleep. Words went unsaid, but we both knew: once the ship docked, our pleasant little arrangement would be over.
For quite some time, I’d been wondering if there could come a time where people travelled less, particularly if no longer make use of commercial flight as a way to see the world, and what the consequence would be if we'd had fewer opportunities to stretch our horizons. What reasons someone would have to learn from other locations, and how might we gain perspective about our place in the global world?
As usual, the process of writing a story surfaces other long-standing obsessions: how might cities and towns built near rivers, deltas and other waterways adapt to rising waters? Continuing on from the thread I'd explored in Soul Noodles, this story also touches upon my fascination with "cuisine as heritage"—and what we'd get to keep, what we'd get to lose—in the context of climate change.
You can hear me talk about all aspects of this story in a podcast episode with Susan Kaye Quinn.
Bright Green Futures 2024 is edited by Susan Kaye Quinn, with stories by Danielle Arostegui, Renan Bernardo, Brightflame , T.K. Rex, Ana Sun and Sarena Ullibarri.