Climate Change
Hunter Fulp | Young Artists Issue | Poetry, Winter 2026
for Dad
As the stickshift glides in the 1969 Big Block,
You grunt at the sight of a deformed mass
Along the side lines. You must turn your head
In pity—‘Cause there ain’t nothin’ wrong
In lookin’ away. But there ain’t nowhere
To go. And the straight path, hot as a firecracker,
Only shows one molted solution. We both gone
Too far past any turnin’ points. Blue on black—
You rev the Camaro and I smile
A big smile, with the smoothness of plastic
Shards that smother the Pacific in a great heap.
A stench that lingers no matter the febreeze.
My smile at the expense of raccoons.
Insignificant to us, but it comes
With warmin’ seasons. We ride like we’re conditioned to.
For stocks, for an idea of an American Dream. I breathe in dark oil
And the sting reminds me of home—of every late night drive
We’ve gotten giddy over, and every oak I’d climb.
The sun, hotter than blue blazes on the mass,
Reflects the stained river seepin’
Into the shards of grass that persist on.
You only reckoned it was a raccoon
Once its potato-mashed tail was visible,
fluffy and striped
Like the stuffies I no longer play with, outside
in the once-fresh dirt. Maybe you cool
your jets at the thought of not high tailin’
to wash my plushies anymore,
but it’s what I stay on about—
We used to pick up three pieces of trash a day.
But we just pass by the ball of fur, ‘cause
I’m too big to climb trees, and you have cars to sell
for that American Dream. In the Z/28, we ease
on the brakes—stoppin’ for the light, looking forward—
and ignore all the turns we should’ve taken.
______________________________________
Why is this piece your Trace Fossil?
“Like a fossil, this poem is an imprint of something that constantly weighs down on me. Growing up on a farm, I’ve always had a love for animals and every season. However, as a Charlestonian, the increasing number of people moving has significantly impacted the amount of trash littering the streets, hanging in trees, and the amount of roadkill displayed along 526. Beaches have even permanently been shut down because of the matter. Not only does this poem define my guilt for participating in a society that hurts its Mother—but it also doesn’t place blame on any particular group. We are all responsible, and only we can slowly fix the issue. If we want to leave our mark—our fossils—then we must save the land that preserves them.”
Hunter is a 17 year old junior at Charleston County School of the Arts, where they major in creative writing. They are a regional award winner of the Scholastic Writing Awards.
Climate Change
Hunter Fulp
Young Artists Issue | Poetry, Winter 2026
for Dad
As the stickshift glides in the 1969 Big Block,
You grunt at the sight of a deformed mass
Along the side lines. You must turn your head
In pity—‘Cause there ain’t nothin’ wrong
In lookin’ away. But there ain’t nowhere
To go. And the straight path, hot as a firecracker,
Only shows one molted solution. We both gone
Too far past any turnin’ points. Blue on black—
You rev the Camaro and I smile
A big smile, with the smoothness of plastic
Shards that smother the Pacific in a great heap.
A stench that lingers no matter the febreeze.
My smile at the expense of raccoons.
Insignificant to us, but it comes
With warmin’ seasons. We ride like we’re conditioned to.
For stocks, for an idea of an American Dream. I breathe in dark oil
And the sting reminds me of home—of every late night drive
We’ve gotten giddy over, and every oak I’d climb.
The sun, hotter than blue blazes on the mass,
Reflects the stained river seepin’
Into the shards of grass that persist on.
You only reckoned it was a raccoon
Once its potato-mashed tail was visible,
fluffy and striped
Like the stuffies I no longer play with, outside
in the once-fresh dirt. Maybe you cool
your jets at the thought of not high tailin’
to wash my plushies anymore,
but it’s what I stay on about—
We used to pick up three pieces of trash a day.
But we just pass by the ball of fur, ‘cause
I’m too big to climb trees, and you have cars to sell
for that American Dream. In the Z/28, we ease
on the brakes—stoppin’ for the light, looking forward—
and ignore all the turns we should’ve taken.
______________________________________
Why is this piece your Trace Fossil?
“Like a fossil, this poem is an imprint of something that constantly weighs down on me. Growing up on a farm, I’ve always had a love for animals and every season. However, as a Charlestonian, the increasing number of people moving has significantly impacted the amount of trash littering the streets, hanging in trees, and the amount of roadkill displayed along 526. Beaches have even permanently been shut down because of the matter. Not only does this poem define my guilt for participating in a society that hurts its Mother—but it also doesn’t place blame on any particular group. We are all responsible, and only we can slowly fix the issue. If we want to leave our mark—our fossils—then we must save the land that preserves them.”
Hunter is a 17 year old junior at Charleston County School of the Arts, where they major in creative writing. They are a regional award winner of the Scholastic Writing Awards.
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