We are volcanoes. When we women offer our experience as our

Host: The sky burned with a deep amber glow as the city sank into dusk. From the rooftop of an old library, the horizon looked alive — smoke, lights, and the faint pulse of something ancient rising beneath the surface of the world. Down below, traffic roared like a river of restless minds.

Jeeny stood by the ledge, her long hair flicking in the wind like a dark banner. In her hand, she held a worn book — The Wave in the Mind, its pages bent, its words like embers. Jack leaned against the rusted railing, a half-empty bottle of beer in his hand, his eyes sharp and distant, reflecting the dying light.

The city’s heartbeat pulsed below. And above, in that strange twilight, words hung between them like sparks waiting to ignite.

Jeeny: “Ursula K. Le Guin once said, ‘We are volcanoes. When we women offer our experience as our truth, as human truth, all the maps change. There are new mountains.’”
(she looks out at the skyline) “Do you feel that, Jack? That the world trembles when truth finally erupts?”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “I feel the tremors, Jeeny. But I don’t know if they change maps — or just redraw the same ones with different ink.”

Host: A gust of wind tugged at the pages of her book, making them flutter like fragile wings. The sun was almost gone now, the edges of the sky glowing red, like something beneath it was still burning.

Jeeny: “That’s because you don’t live under the volcano. You just build cities near it and pretend you’re safe.”

Jack: (takes a slow drink) “And you think eruption is salvation?”

Jeeny: “I think eruption is truth. When women — or anyone who’s been silenced — speaks, the ground shifts. The landscape changes. That’s not destruction, Jack. That’s creation.”

Jack: “And yet every eruption kills, Jeeny. Lava doesn’t distinguish between old maps and new ones — it just burns.”

Host: His voice was calm but heavy. His eyes followed the clouds, thickening like smoke. Jeeny turned toward him, the wind pulling at her coat, her face caught between shadow and firelight.

Jeeny: “Sometimes something has to die for something real to live. You think silence is harmless? History is built on the ashes of people who stayed quiet.”

Jack: “History’s also built on revolutions that devoured themselves. You start with a truth, and by the time it’s loud enough to be heard, it’s already become another kind of power — another kind of weapon.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the price. Power reshapes the earth, Jack. It’s what mountains do. They rise violently — but once they stand, they give shelter.”

Host: The city lights began to flicker on one by one, tiny constellations of human defiance. A plane crossed above them, a silver streak cutting through the red sky. Jack watched it for a long moment, his jaw tight, his fingers tapping against the bottle.

Jack: “You really believe that? That truth is born in violence?”

Jeeny: “Not in violence. In eruption. There’s a difference. Violence takes — eruption reveals. When a woman speaks her truth, it’s not about conquest. It’s about release. Like a mountain exhaling after centuries of pressure.”

Jack: “And what about those caught in the fire?”

Jeeny: “You mean the ones who fear being burned? Maybe they should step back and listen instead of trying to rebuild the world on the same foundations.”

Host: A long silence followed. The wind carried faint sounds from the street — a saxophone, laughter, a siren far away. The night descended slow and deliberate, painting the air with darkness and memory.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… sometimes I think all this talk of truth and experience is just poetry. It doesn’t build bridges or cure disease. It just… sounds good.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Poetry built the first bridges, Jack. It gave people the reason to build them. Without stories, there’s no structure. Without emotion, no invention. Everything starts with someone saying, I feel this. That’s the first eruption.”

Host: Her voice carried warmth — the kind that could melt rock. Jack didn’t answer right away. He watched her — the way her eyes glowed in the fading light, the way her words seemed to make the air hum.

Jack: “You sound like one of those artists who believe emotion can save the world.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not save it. But it can make it real. Men build empires to control the world. Women tell stories to understand it. Both create — but one remembers the cost.”

Jack: “So now truth has gender?”

Jeeny: “No. But silence does.”

Host: The words struck like quiet thunder. Jack’s brow furrowed, his mouth opening and closing, but no sound followed. The sky above had turned a deep, volcanic red. Somewhere, distant lightning flashed without thunder — like a warning or a promise.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the suffragists, Jack? The marches, the hunger strikes, the women beaten for wanting to vote? That was eruption. And when they spoke, the world’s map changed. There were new mountains — new names, new rights, new possibilities.”

Jack: “And yet, here we are, still fighting the same battles. Maybe the lava cooled, and we built cities on top of it again.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s time to erupt again.”

Host: The light from a passing helicopter swept over them — for a moment, their faces were illuminated, caught in the beam like two opposing gods on a mountaintop. Jeeny’s eyes burned with conviction. Jack’s — with doubt, but also awe.

Jack: “You talk like the world’s still waiting for fire.”

Jeeny: “It always is. Every generation buries the embers deeper. Every woman who speaks truth digs them back up.”

Jack: “And men?”

Jeeny: “Some help. Some run. Some just watch and call it chaos.”

Host: The wind grew colder, whispering through the rusted railing. Jack turned back toward the city — the towers, the noise, the pulse.

Jack: “You know, I think I get it now. The eruption isn’t about destroying the old maps. It’s about reminding us they were wrong in the first place.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Exactly. The mountains were always there. They just weren’t drawn yet.”

Host: A stillness fell between them — not of silence, but of recognition. The city below seemed to shimmer, as if even the lights understood something had shifted. Jeeny closed her book and placed it on the concrete ledge, the wind tugging softly at its pages.

Jack: “So, Jeeny… if we’re all volcanoes, what happens after we erupt?”

Jeeny: “Then we become land — rich, alive, and new. And others will build upon us.”

Host: The moon rose — pale and heavy, hanging like a lantern over the dark sprawl of the world. The last traces of sunset glowed on the horizon like molten veins cooling under the earth.

Jeeny turned toward Jack and smiled — not in victory, but in understanding.

Jeeny: “Maps change when courage speaks. And courage doesn’t whisper.”

Host: The camera pulled back slowly, the two of them standing against the vast living map of the city — smoke, light, and movement. Behind them, the skyline glowed like a field of slumbering volcanoes.

And for a brief, eternal moment, it seemed the earth itself was listening — trembling softly beneath their feet, waiting for the next mountain to rise.