Arctic Summer!
Acton, MA
2022, Junior, Creative Writing
Thunder booms. Lightning crackles. As acid rain streams down from the dingy sky onto my black hair, I yank up the hood of my gray sweatshirt and thrust my hands deeper into the pockets of my faded blue jeans. The howling wind shakes the majestic oak trees that line my street on this dreary, late Sunday afternoon. I bolt, as fast as lightning, into my apartment, barely glancing at the colorful posters that line my sunshine yellow walls—which talk of dangerously rising sea levels of up to eight feet by 2100—and flick on the desk lamp that sits on the wooden desk in my bedroom. Bam! A freak lightning bolt shatters my lamp’s bulb into a thousand glass fragments, and it arcs across my room, slamming, like a whip, into my left butt-cheek….
* * *
My eyes open, and I find myself in a small, white, cold pit of snow. I look down at my four dark padded paws, and I try to talk but can only emit a deep growl. Gone are my gray hoodie and blue jeans. Instead, I am encased in a coat of brilliant white fur that engulfs me in its snug coziness. This coat has clearly been designed to be my armor in the frigid Arctic, where I must now call home. Around my land, my iceberg, there are pools of water, stretching far into the horizon, and my drifting ice caps oscillate wildly in this turbulent sea. The sun’s twinkling beams dapple the ocean to create a beautiful, glittering mess. My inner growl says, You must find food. The blazing heat has already destroyed my hometown, the archaic land of my ancestors. My dinner of salmon, mashed potatoes, and salad no longer lies waiting for me inside my refrigerator back in my apartment. Instead I must now hunt for my dinner within these murky marine depths. I trudge into the water, searching for precious prey. I spy a large 100-pound blubbery seal off the coast of my glacial iceberg territory. I drop into the crisp, icy, undulating aqua and observe how much chillier the sea is compared to my centrally heated city apartment. A floating seltzer can with light glinting off its shiny surface drifts into my vision. The polar bear logo on the can’s label blares, “Enjoy your Arctic Summer!” Suddenly, I spy a seal! The listless seal lies gasping for air on the glacial mass, and I strike. My sharp penetrating claws show no mercy. I dive into my meal, planning for mouthful after bloody mouthful of an early dinner. Like a punch to the snout, the lightning bolt hits me again. I tumble back in astonishment as I land on my furry rump. A sharp crack fills the air, and I feel my paws slipping out from under me while I slide forward. Ice begins to shatter into thousands of shards, and I close my eyes and let myself fall into the icy abyss. Paddling furiously with my powerful haunches, I rack my brain for the term that my human teacher, Mr. Sueage, used in my science class last term. The word comes to mind. Coral! I remember the glossy pictures in Mr. Sueage’s textbooks of the coral atolls and their magnificent edifices dancing on the disco sea ground. Yet, my school textbook’s thriving multi-hued coral island that stirs the water with its flashes of bridal tints is not what I see beneath me. I peer through my ice glass windows and realize how thin and fragile my home is becoming, and I remember there is now 13% less Arctic ice than there was at this time 100 years ago. I look behind me, and I see the problem. Warmer waters mean white and starchy gray destruction is seeping everywhere. Damp moldy patches of pollution stretch across large portions of the reef, and their chalky tendrils snake across the ocean floor. In despair, I realize my textbooks are now fiction, and I watch as my freshly caught seal flops into the water and swims away. I look up and see a familiar face watching me with curiosity. I dog-paddle my way to the ragged hole I made when I fell through the ice. My new polar bear friend asks, “Did you find any fish?”
They are right to ask this question. The atolls should be teeming with marine life. As if they know exactly what I am thinking, the dying coral replies, “The fish have died due to climate change and global warming, along with our coral castles …”
* * *
Crash! “Sorry! I dropped a plate!” my mom yells from the kitchen. I open my eyes to the familiar sunny yellow bedroom walls of my apartment, lined with those posters that shout of rising sea levels, and the delicious smell of my impending salmon dinner fills the air. My dripping wet gray hoodie is hanging on the back of my desk chair, next to my burned out and blackened lamp. The thunder and lightning continue to rumble and crackle ominously overhead. An empty upturned gleaming soda can that is sitting on my desk catches my eye, and I read its glib label one last time. My mouth opens, and both boy and polar bear become one, as together we silently rage, “Arctic Summer?!”
Reflection
I was inspired to write a creative story about a boy who switches places with a polar bear, and how the boy finally sees, through the polar bear’s eyes, the true destructive impact of climate change—namely, extreme weather patterns, melting ice caps, pollution, and dying coral reefs. The star protagonist of the show, the polar bear—not the boy—is my humorous focus. I had to try to balance the different elements of my story, such as parody and irony, while making the plot relatable to the reader, empathetic to the polar bear, as well as being deceptively light-hearted. However, my story’s denouement culminates in the boy and polar bear uniting in their horror and fight against climate change.