Global Warming

Synopsis

The purpose of my piece is to highlight the damage that first-world countries such as Australia are causing to smaller, third-world countries such as Micronesia. The global warming, that is being caused by greenhouse gasses that come from countries such as ours, is causing the water levels to rise and in time, there may not be any islands above water in Micronesia. This is discovered in my piece by a low ranked environmentalist. I won’t include more than five characters with dialogue. I’ll try to minimise the dialogue to ensure my story is thrilling through the events occurring, not what’s being said by the characters. Writers face many challenges but I think the most significant challenges for me will be creating a character that the audience will engage with, not going into too much detail/recounting and writing sophisticated dialogue for Morris (who is very intelligent). Morris is a metaphor for the underdog type persona who, although having a valid and important point, are unheard and frequently ignored. The setting for this piece is meant to hook the audience due to its foreignness to the readers as it is most likely unheard of to the audience.

My creative writing piece is about a low ranked, rude, environmentalist from Canberra named Dr Christian Morris, who is sent to a small island in the pacific called Palau. He’s sent to make a report of the climate and the environment and sent back his results for the world-wide survey his company is under taking. All is going to plan until Morris unearths proof that the theory of the water levels rising is not just a myth (scientific discovery). That it’s in fact reality. This makes Morris question what he can do to help and if he is in fact, somewhat responsible for these events.

Orientation

Monotone buzzing. A sharp pain. A cry of discomfort. And finally. SMACK. Almost as if a vinyl record was trapped on repeat. The all so familiar sound of a failed assassination attempt on those God damned devil spawn some call mosquitos. He heard that very same tune again, eyes darting, “the son of a bitch is coming in for another drink”. He readied himself for the final stand, sweat trickling down his brow. He saw the dark blur, heard the hum and his hand shot out. “Gotcha”. One slight squeeze and the humming ended. “Dr Morris if you could hurry please”. Christian could barely believe it had only been a day since he’d gripped the arm rest of the decayed piece of shrapnel they’d called a plane as it lunged towards the runway. He had prayed to wake up in his bed back in Canberra. To be able to go downstairs and feed the dogs. To walk outside and… “Dr Morris, please sir we mustn’t take any longer, Palauan streets aren’t friendly to your sort after curfew”. That was enough to catapult him back into reality. Ah yes. Here he was. The dump where he was told that you had to worry about either catching Malaria from the insects or AIDs from the people. This was not what he’d signed up for. Come on Christian, you’ll be home sipping crownies within a week. Stay strong. He didn’t want to be there and it was obvious. None of the broachers had mentioned what Palau was really like. Not the brazen-bull like heat nor the feral dogs that carried God knows how many diseases. If almost to contradict this point of view, he felt a slight tug on his cargo shorts. Morris glanced down expecting a mongrel, instead he saw a simply dressed, sweet faced young girl, hands held up, gesturing for money. With a heavy sigh, Christian opened his leather bound wallet to find only two notes. A twenty and a one. If I give her the 20, she’ll think I’m a charity but if I give her the one she wont know any better. As if his hand had a mind of its own, Morris squeezed both notes in his palm, despite his internal resistance, he slowly placed the cash in her hand. With a smile full of crooked teeth, she ran off. Smirking to himself, he muttered “you’re welcome”. Back to work, you got a job to do mate… accept it. With a sigh, he pulled out the metal box-shaped machine of the ripped pockets of his cargo shorts. The “GHGcd model X” (better known as the scrap box 3000 back at the company). Leading edge technology my ass. Beep. It was still functioning. Surprising. Time to do the only thing you’re meant to be doing. With a pull, the antenna slid out of its shadowy cave. This is it. Time to prove what a joke it was to send me here he thought to himself as he pointed the box towards the sun. He waited. Ten seconds turned into thirty seconds. Thirty into a minute. A minute into three. Ah well, it was worth a shot he muttered as he went to slide the antenna back in. Then he heard it. Slight at first. A beep. His heart fluttered. This can’t be right. Another beep, louder this time. It has to be a mistake. A final beep, louder than ever. “Dr Morris is everything okay”. Shaking like a child in a snow storm, Dr Christian Morris brought the machine in front of his eyes. The numbers were growing larger. And larger. And larger. Holy shit. He said a silent prayer but nothing happened. The digits kept moving.