Chuan-En King
Issaquah, WA
2016, Senior, Creative Writing

“Arthur! Be home before the sun starts to set, okay? Don’t go too far!”

“Mom, you don’t have to say that every time I go out to the river.” Arthur shut the screen door behind him and started on the short walk to the river that ran behind his house.

It was a bright day, and very hot – the perfect day to play. But with his plastic bag in hand and backpack clinging to him, Arthur reminded himself that he wasn’t here to have fun. Not this time – he had to find something for show and tell. They’ve been on an ocean unit for the past few months, and while Arthur was interested at first, he eventually lost interest. They lived right in the middle of America, about as far away from the mythical ocean that you could get. What was the ocean to him? Just a word, a pretty picture on a postcard, something you saw in books.

Nothing terribly important, apparently.

He could hear the gentle whisper of the river now. And then, there it was, just beyond the clearing – the closest thing to “ocean” that Arthur would probably ever see in his life. It wasn’t anything special – he’d been here many times to collect cool rocks and stones.

Arthur stepped into the river, humming to himself. He liked the way the water felt on warm days like this, cold and bright, a breath of life in an otherwise lazy day. The water brushed by his ankles and moved on, the stones in the riverbed cool against his feet.

The river itself wasn’t too large or violent – otherwise, Arthur’s mom would never have let him out to play by himself. Today, it was just a gleaming strip of silver under the sun, quietly moving along, slowly but surely. Arthur walked along its length, eyes on the ground, looking for something cool to show the class.

Iridescent stones, green, blue. Pearly white stones, and stones the color of night – and littered among them, bottle caps, glass bottles, and strands of plastic rippling like seaweed in the gentle current. It was strangely beautiful, this sight – something that he’d grown up with. Man mixing with nature, he’d like to think. Sometimes he’d find a bottle cap that was pretty cool, too.

Something glinted under the surface. As he reached for it, the rocks under his feet suddenly gave way and shifted, sending Arthur towards the middle of the river. Here, the current moved with a bit more conviction. Still, he could swim. He told himself that it would be alright.

As he slowly made his way to the shore, his teacher’s voice echoed in his head. Remember children, not all the world’s rivers run into the ocean. Not all. Still, Arthur was never lucky, and he felt a twinge of fear. He wondered if this river, so familiar and welcoming, ran into something as distant and dark and mysterious as the ocean itself.

Arthur kicked a little harder.

Just a little bit further –

And then, his foot got caught in something under the water. The river pushed against him, forcing him under occasionally, and he tugged and wrenched and pulled, trying to free himself of whatever he got caught in. Again, the waters shoved him down, and again he would rise, filling his lungs with air for a few precious seconds.

He pulled and pulled with all his might, until he finally wrenched himself free. The force of his actions sent him in an awkward underwater flip – half in the water and half in the air, his legs meeting the cool afternoon breeze that his lungs yearned for. His head hit something and he went limp.

Arthur blacked out.

Not all the world’s rivers run into the ocean…

Arthur opened his eyes slowly. There was darkness, and only darkness – so suffocating in its absolution, its desolation deafening. He knew he was underwater – his skin was cold and he was weightless. He could feel the gentle pushing and pulling of the waters, the fantastic and terrible pressure pushing against his skin and crushing his skull, but he could still breathe, and when he gasped, sounds came in lieu of bubbles.

Inhale. Exhale. His heart pounded against his chest.

It’s always terribly sad when a little thing like you gets pushed into my hands.

The voice was carried by the water, rich and velvety and drunk with age and wisdom. More than ever, Arthur felt afraid, alone in an infinite expanse of unknowable darkness, at the mercy of the ocean in all its might.

Now, now, don’t be afraid. It’ll all be alright soon. What’s your name?

“Arthur,” he said, surprised at how his voice sounded underwater.

Hi, Arthur. I’m the Ocean, as you may have already deduced.

“Are you going to kill me?”

Kill you? Why would I do such a thing? No, you’re just a guest today. You’re much too young to die.

Around him, black faded into navy and into the bright cerulean waters of the open ocean. It was teeming with life – but everything seemed to move slowly. Around them, fish and coral led their fading existence, poisoned and sickly.

Look at me, Arthur. I used to be something great, you know. I was the muse for artists, an escape for adventurers. I captured the fascination of your kind for thousands of years – I was the dirt from which civilization sprung. Empires fell and nations rose, and I was there for it all, watching and guiding.

But look at me now – impure. I was timeless, and somehow your kind gave me an expiration date. Filled and bloated with your trash.

“But – you’re the ocean. You’re so big! It’ll just go away with time, right?”

Bah! Ignorant, like the rest of them. The only thing more timeless than me is your filthy plastic. I’ve tried everything – dragged it to the depths, swished it around in my currents – I’ve pushed it back to the land, only for more to return. These days, I just let it fester. A malignant tumor twice the size of Texas.

“No way.”

Oh yes way. I can show you. The Ocean scooped him up on a mighty current. In the distance, Arthur could see the shape of a landmass – large, looming, and wide.

They came closer, and he could see how big the island truly was – it seemed like it stretched from one end of the ocean to the other.

And he could see that it wasn’t an island at all.

It was really just a swirl of acrylic yellows and browns, like old watercolors mixing in each other, swirling into the crystal ocean. Arthur could make out thousands of old bottles, shapeless and soggy plastics stuck together, and fragments of wood and nets hopelessly tangled in each other.

You won’t believe what ends up here. Everything lost finds its way to the ocean, in one way or another.

Arthur couldn’t speak for a moment. He took in the sheer scale of the scene before him saying, “But it’s just floating, right, Ocean? As long as we stop –“Just floating? You really think it’s just floating? Look closer!

As requested, Arthur squinted, and gasped. It seemed wrong that he hadn’t noticed the carcasses before, littered among the trash. Oily feathers still clung to bone, and though the skin was still rotting, aluminum cans and plastic still glinted maliciously from inside the body, undamaged and undigested.

Birds eat it. Fish eat it. The fish that eat smaller fish eat it. Plastic never just floats – it devours food chains, it feasts until there’s nothing left. And then it floats.

Arthur himself floated there – watching the afternoon sunlight glint off aluminum, illuminating the bright yellows, reds, and browns of the Great Pacific garbage Patch. Below them, the ocean was dark in its sickness, seemingly terminal.

“Um… Ocean? Er – I mean, Mr. Ocean? I’m sorry, but I promised my mom I’d be home before the sun set. Otherwise, she won’t let me play by the river again.”

The Ocean didn’t answer for a moment – and then it pulled him down towards the depths, until everything faded to black. The world whirled and spun, a blue orb in the infinite loneliness of space, slowly turning murky brown until –

Above him, the sunlight glowed brightly. Arthur sat up – the river trickled quietly before him, and he was clutching his plastic baggie tightly in his hand. His heart pounded, but as he brought his hand up to his chest, he realized his clothes were completely dry.

Arthur stood up and took a few cautious steps towards the river. There were still a few moments before the sun set completely, and he still had to collect something for show and tell tomorrow. Iridescent stones, green, blue. Pearly white stones, stones the color of night. And littered among them were bottle caps, glass bottles, and strands of plastic rippling like seaweed in the gentle current. Arthur carefully waded into the river – not too far – and fished a few aluminum cans and plastic bags out of the water, stuffing them into his bag.

He got out of the water, found his shoes, and started home, already going over what he would say during show and tell tomorrow at school.

~~~

The Ocean watched him go, his little legs carrying him away from its clutches and onto land. One life spared, amongst the many that had died. He wasn’t sure why he did it. Perhaps he hoped that it would change something.

But as he trickled silently back into open waters, he felt the microscopic shards of plastic running in his veins and down estuaries and into seas. What could the boy do, to change something so widespread? Every day, more and more plastic would build up – each human contributing just a bottle cap or a can, until he was bled dry. How would the little one stop it?

Against all doubts and reasons though, he knew the lesson wouldn’t fade. The boy would make a difference. With every little bottle recycled, with every little purchase – the Ocean had been around long enough to see the human race accomplish much more astounding miracles than simply cleaning up after themselves.

Yes, the Ocean decided, it was enough. He felt foolish for doubting the power of one little voice. What was an ocean, after all, but infinite crests – rising and falling and smudging from one to the next and into memory? One small ripple would become a wave, a wave into a force of power and beauty; washing and reforming, fixing and healing.

Above them, the sky was blue, the clouds fluffy and carried by a gentle breeze. All would be well.

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