Days of hope

How to assuage the hatred within it, to quiet its snapping bones as it rises from below the ocean’s floor, there is no way. It’s too late: an ancient lid flutters open to reveal a yellow iris lit by anglerfish, the rest of it a shadow suffused in crimson.

Listen: ———————————-brruuuttpppppeppp————brruuuuuuutttppppeeeppp——-Then the waves above the ocean floor—how many feet? Ten thousand? Twelve?—reach for the moon. Seagulls rush to where the bubbling ocean expands to reveal its head, like a baby through the birth canal, a swath of coarse, red-orange hair pushing through. Its grotesque face, prune-like, an expression of cruelty in the folds and ridges of its forehead, surveys its new world. On the coastline, some have started to pray, while others premourn the loss of it all. But one girl, aged twelve, does not.

She’s holding her little brother’s hand: a two-year-old hugging his stuffy, “Tops,” on account of it being a triceratops. In her eyes is the fire of a billion stars. Her brother looks up at her, giddy with anticipation. He knows, because he’s seen it, what she can do, how she can make the world bend to her whims and wishes—and he knows that she’s been holding back. Inside her is a winter storm; she’s the final ice that ends the season; the season’s end.

It’s moving; the ocean moves. It’s screaming; the ocean shouts. It’s dragging something, a club, each spike on it as big as a tree. The world sends war to it—men and women full of pride and good intentions—the cocky Armada, slick squadrons, and stoic missiles launched from nearby silos are all useless. Like flies on a horse, an annoyance.

She walks her brother to a nearby bench and sets him and Tops on the damp wood. She pats his head and he gives her a pouty lip. She looks concerned, then it hits her—she adds a little pat on Top’s head. “Good now?”

“Good.” Her brother’s frown turns upside-down.

“You stay put, just for a few minutes, then we’ll go get some lunch. Sound Ok to you?”

“Yep.”

“Great, I’ll be back soon. Keep an eye on Tops,” she says, bending down to look at the stuffy in its glittery, resin eyes.

“Tops can watch too?”

“Yes, Tops can watch.”

She turns. It’s wading toward her, snatching something from the water, a whale. It rips the majestic beast’s head from its body with its teeth.

She frowns. She likes whales.

Its teeth are like skyscrapers, its hands like balled-up mountain tops.

She removes something from her hoodie pocket. A small notebook covered in colorful stickers. She scribbles something within it. The beast is cutting through the sea—she’s got less than a minute before everything is demolished. The sky mimics the ocean’s dance, swirling, frothing.

Then, it’s done: she walks through the surf, continuing beyond the water’s lapping tongue until the ocean snatches her, hoists her up, delivering her to the monster in its briny hand.

She holds her arms high above her head to keep the pages from getting wet. She’s glad she wore her flip-flops; she kicks them off, scissoring her legs to stay above water.

WOOOOSHHHHH—the ribboning slush is coming down, smashing skiffs and yachts in the harbor. Through miracle or blessing, the girl avoids the downpour; she smiles at this unnatural disaster.

It brings its face, smeared with yellowish-green mucus, down to the child. There’s a moment of fear in her eyes, and it’s clear that it excites the creature, whose broad mouth expands into a snarling grin. Hungry. Angry. Malevolent.

It’s a trick. When the monster is within inches of the girl, her eyes become the cool hue of winter, and her cinnamon breath speaks the words written in the notebook:

“It’s not yet time to wake.” It’s a whisper, said with the resolve of someone yelling. “It’s not yet time to wake.”

The sea demon tilts its head, trying to make out the meaning of the words. Its smile melts. Its shoulders sag. Its brow arcs.

“There are still days of hope,” she reads aloud. “Rainbows, unicorns, and dinosaurs are still drawn at small tables. Dogs sleep in patches of sunlight. Mothers read to their children, and fathers still tell lame jokes. There are still fresh rolls slathered in butter to be eaten. Sunday pancakes! Trees that grow sideways. Skinny-tailed kittens. Cool pillows. And there are so many books to be read! Pulsing stars like jewels on black velvet and songs that stir the soul. Still more good than evil. There is still more love than hatred. Still more love! Still more love! So you see, it’s not yet time to wake. Go back to sleep and dream of chaos!”

She looks back at her brother and Tops, now just specks on a wooden bench. He’s watching her, waiting for her, learning the ropes. He raises his delicate hand and waves. She waves back as best she can while bobbing up and down in the drink.

Its mouth, a gaping void edged in skyscraper teeth, expands until it seems its jaw might unhinge. Its yawn, reeking of bile and fish, is so deep that it’s almost endearing. Then, it retreats. Its colossal frame lowers into the ocean. The sea rises from the mass of the creature, lifting the girl toward the sky on a swell. Its head briefly wears a halo of seagulls, then it’s completely submerged. It’s gone. The seagulls feast in the aftermath.

As a show of gratitude, the girl is delivered back to shore on a helpful wave. The ocean is still violent, but it’s the normal violence; it’s the beautiful swirl of life and death that it’s meant to be.

Sirens wail. People run about helping one another.

She walks up to the bench and takes her brother by the hand. His dimples are prominent, his admiration apparent.

“How’s it going?” she asks.

“Good. Tops is hungry.”

“Let’s go get him some food. I forget, what do triceratops eat?”

“I think noodles.”

“That sounds right to me.”

They have ramen, and for dessert, they have fresh donuts and cocoa. And the living world, with all of its magic and beautiful things, spins on.