Fishing for Mermaids is a collection of short stories about the complicated nature of desire, whether it's for a new life, a former lover, a new culture, a new look, a past experience, or even a mermaid.
This collection contains stories written duri...
This was originally published as an entry into the #PlanetOrPlastic writing contest for 500 word stories.
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When Grandpa bought the beach house, it was something to be desired, but now it's a burden. Since the government offered mortgage programs for residents willing to clean the shoreline of plastics coming in on the tide, the house has been on the market. Why not get away from the trash now while he can get his investment back? I get it. But since we live with him, that means Mom and I have to move now too.
Only two days before the new owners close on the house. That means only two more days to finally see what the ocean feels like. Who knows if all these new property owners will ever be able to clean the plastic from the water enough for the shoreline to be a destination again.
It's early. The sun is just peeking up from the horizon, and it will be another hour or so before Mom and Grandpa are awake and able to stop me from setting foot in the water, like they have for years now. The water is toxic. You could get caught in the debris and drown. Who knows what bacteria is in the water now. They're right to keep me from the ocean, but the plastic robbed me of an experience I've only known through stories. I'll deal with the consequences later.
The periwinkle and pink sky reflects off the floating plastic, and for the next few minutes before the sun glows more brightly, I can imagine that the false landmass of plastic in front of me isn't just gray and brown garbage.
My full body swimsuit squeaks with every step I take towards the water--I'm not completely stupid, I know at least to cover up--until, finally, the touch of morning ocean cools my ankles. Then my calves, my thighs, my belly. The plastic builds and piles around me as I push through. I move my snorkel mask over my face, and with a deep breath, I dip below the trash.
Down here, the water looks almost blue, like I've seen in old pictures and on old globes before all the satellites showed were expanses of gray. It's only me down here. Grandpa once said he used to see fish when he'd swim here. Aside from the spots of darkness from all the trash blocking out the sun, this isn't too different from when I've swam in pools. With all the plastic in the water, it even sort of smells like the chemicals people put in pools.
Some of the trash floats around me, but then something else floats up from beneath me. Another grey, shimmering object joins me. A hub cap? A plastic platter? Then I see it... it's a dead stingray.
I reach out to touch it, and as my fingertips smooth over its top, I notice it almost feels like plastic. Maybe that's how we justified using plastic to this extent: It almost feels natural, until it keeps you from living your life.
