“Ugh.”
Greta Thunberg frowned. Another day of naysayers and curmudgeons awaited her. She just wasn’t feeling it. War, famine, drought. Why won’t they listen? She smiled weakly at the dozens of signed Elton John posters that adorned her wall. He got it. He would understand. As Elton would say she was ‘still standing’ and, in a way, climate change was ‘a little bit funny’.
Well, today she was going to the World Economic Forum at Davos and would give the lords and ladies of the land a piece of her mind. As she threw on her eco-cape made from recycled dirt, her mum cartwheeled in, just like she did every morning.
“You don’t have to do this, Greta.”
“I do,” she sighed.
“You don’t.”
“But I literally do. What else am I gonna do? Shine shoes? Besides, I’ve missed so much school at this point I’ll probably never catch up.”
“That’s fair,” agreed her mum. “You’re nothing in this world without a GCSE.”
“We’re Swedish,” Greta whispered.
Suddenly her internal bell tolled and Greta realised the time. She was late for Davos.
“Look, Mum, I don’t have time for this,” she exclaimed, and put her mum back in the cupboard. She grabbed a smörgås for the road, popped on her One Direction crocs and off she leapt, humming Zayn Malik’s Pillowtalk as she went. She had a lot of respect for Zayn, but generally kept it to herself.
And so off she went, in her solar-powered horse and cart. The horses were trying not to take the recent additions of sun panels personally, but found it a little passive-aggressive. They had been anxious about their jobs for a while, but this was quite literally the final straw. They would go on another hunger strike tonight.
The townspeople sped past, singing like always, and exclaiming what a peculiar mademoiselle she was. Sometimes Greta liked to wave at people she didn’t know so they felt socially anxious. She had read once on the back of a bean that life’s greatest joys were in the little things.
She wouldn’t be stopping this morning. In fact, Greta never stopped – she was like a shark. She hated the townspeople – especially the local baker and the bookshop guy. ‘Having an independent business is not an excuse for a personality,’ her shirt read. And they all saw.
At this point Luc from Emily in Paris sped past on his scooter, singing the French national anthem. She couldn’t help it, but found herself laughing for the first time this day and joined him in a very refined French jig. Goddamn those revolutionary lyrics, she thought, losing herself in a culotte-based fantasy. She laughed. Luc laughed. “God, French people rule,” she laughed to herself.
A maypole later, they came to. Uh oh, she’d been entranced for much longer than she had anticipated! There was only one thing for it. She’d have to cut through the woods. Dangerous, and full of people who had never found their way back from Fyre festival. She shuddered to think how long they had been here, nibbling on lost ear pods and old tennis balls. She made a mental note to mention the crisis at Davos, and put up some more ‘WANTED’ posters for JaRule.
She cut through the forest like a good pair of scissors through wrapping paper, until a figure appeared between the trees. It was cloaked and dabbing. “Who goes there?” she said. “Tell me your name.”
“Greta,” it said back.
“No, that’s my name. What’s your name?”
“Greta,” it cackled again. “Hehehehehehhehehehehehehehhehe.”
Oh. She knew what was happening. A sick, twisted, foolish Gen-Z mind game.
She didn’t have time for Chalamet’s shit. “I don’t have time for your shit, Chalamet,” she said. “And I will not call you by my name.” A single tear rolled down his famously sallow cheek as Timmy went tumbling into the ravine – bowling shoes first.
“It’s not that deep,” she yelled after him.
Soon Castle Davos appeared on the horizon. Huge, foreboding, and guarded by school careers advisors, hissing at the top of their lungs. At long last she had arrived. Here she would change the course of history, here she would make her mark on the world.
She shouted up to the gatekeeper. “Let me in, I’m really late!” A head popped out on the parapets above.
“What Ho! Who goes there yonder? It is the East and Juliet is the – oh. You. I was expecting Andrew Garfield.”
It was Mark, of the disgraced Zuckerbergs. He looked terrible, even more incel-y than usual, and was chewing hard on some lentil chips. Worried about his upcoming witch trial, Greta thought. He had been caught sliding political pamphlets under the doors of his neighbours, and inviting people to events that never actually ended up happening.
“What are you doing here, Grindelwald? Stop meddling.”
“It’s Greta. Can you stop throwing coins at my head?”
“Money! Money! Money! Lalala!” he began to chant as chocolate doubloons rained down onto her.
Suddenly, a comforting BBC voice rang out. “Fuck off, Mark’. You could always count on Louis Theroux.
“Louis!”, Greta cried. “I’m so late, please let me through!”
Suddenly Louis’ legs started to grow longer and longer, rising up to the parapets until he was eye to eye with Mark. Mark gulped loudly, choking on his lentil-based snack. Louis looked him in the eye and gave him his first ever hug. Mark wept. Louis wept. Mark’s gold-foil coins got soggy.
“Go save the world, Greta,” Louis said, now back to somewhat taller than average height.
“Thanks!” She started for the doors but before she took her first step Louis said suddenly, “Would it be weird if I tagged along? Work’s slow.”
“Yes, Louis. It would,” she pushed him aside and he too went tumbling headlong into the ravine.
To be continued.
Rosalie is a freelance writer (lol) and semi-comedian. She’s been called a ‘Renaissance woman in the truest form’ and loves giving out unsolicited advice on subjects she knows very little about. Somehow she’s written for real life publications like Funny Women, Chortle, Times Higher Education and Journoresources. BBC radio featured her sketches and introduced her as a ‘Wiltshire Wit’ which will feature on her biodegradable tombstone.