The Pacific Trash Psalm

The ocean used to taste like salt. Now it tastes like battery acid and sunscreen. Ophelia can’t tell which she prefers.

She balances on her raft—seven surfboards, a door, and a mangled billboard for Venice Beach Pilates—lashed together with orange extension cords. The sea is glass today, but not the kind you’d want to hold. Plastic reefs gleam below her, waving like the stained-glass organs of a drowned cathedral. Every few minutes something bright rises from the depths: a shoal of bottle caps, a dead drone, a rainbow tarp that still reads Lifeguard Off Duty.

Every morning she repeats the same ritual. Polishes a cracked mirror with the hem of her shirt, fogs it with breath, checks for recognition. Then she writes in waterproof marker along her wrist: “Drink water. Don’t glitch.” The words smear but never wash off. Somewhere, through the static of her old radio, scavengers gossip about her, the girl who hums with the sea. She pretends not to hear.

She’s been out here since sunrise, scavenging before the traders flood the markets, before the radio static thickens with everyone else’s prayers. Barefoot, skin peeling, she hums along to a ghost playlist looping through her waterproof headphones, a synth-pop song that sounds like heartbreak underwater.

She ties the morning’s haul to her waist: two broken chargers, half a mirror, a phone still sealed in its waterproof case. People will trade for any relic that still flickers. Dock 4 pays best for screens that stutter. As she bends to haul up another tangle, the ocean hums—not tide, but a frequency so pure it vibrates her bones. Under her raft, the reflection of her own face lags half a second behind.

“Don’t start,” she whispers.

The reflection grins

anyway.

The hum cuts out.

Dock 4 smells like salt, fried kelp, and overheated circuitry. Vendors have nailed their stalls to what used to be a freeway off-ramp, now half-submerged and tilted like a broken jaw.

Everything sizzles—

the air,

the power cables,

the gossip.

The market hums with barter. A woman in a wetsuit sells “miracle desal pills” that are really just chalk. Someone’s built a shrine out of busted smart-speakers, their screens flicker with looping prayers: refresh, refresh, refresh. Every few minutes, one vendor shouts the day’s new sermon. Something about how the Pacific holds the uploaded souls of the faithful, each wave a data packet ferrying us home.

A woman with earbuds lodged deep in both ears mutters to herself. “Keeps the voices out,” she tells Ophelia, tapping the buds like holy charms. Farther down, a man whispers that a scavenger “uploaded himself” last week and left behind a perfectly still raft—no wind, no wake, just absence. Ophelia moves through it like an immune response, calm, half-bored, but listening.

A boy no older than twelve hawks jewelry made from coral and USB ports.

“You want a charm?” he

asks.

“Keeps the Signal Saints

away.”

She smirks. “They never

come for me.”

He grins a chipped-tooth

grin.

“That’s what they all say

before they start humming.”

She trades him a cracked charger for a shark tooth carved with the Wi-Fi symbol. It clinks against the rest of her necklace—beer tabs, a Saint Monica keycard, the button from a denim jacket that isn’t hers anymore.

Further down, a battered drone drifts overhead, broadcasting a vintage ad through its dying speaker:

‘Pure Glacier Water—

Because You Deserve

Better!’

People laugh, but no one looks up.

She passes a preacher standing ankle-deep in the surf, baptizing scavengers with a splash of gray water.

“The Ocean Remembers All

Uploads!” he cries.

Ophelia keeps walking. The memory makes her throat ache. She’s not sure if it’s nostalgia or thirst.

At the end of the dock, she sits with her ration pack, staring out where the smog turns the horizon silver. The phone she found still glows faintly in her pocket, warm like an animal heart. Around her, the market’s voices merge into static: commerce, prayer, waves, all blending into one long advertisement for faith.

She unwraps the phone, taps the screen once, and the hum returns—soft, patient, waiting.

That night, anchored in the quiet zone, she eats cold rations while the sea glitters with bioluminescence. A shadow passes beneath… slow, deliberate. Then come goldfish, impossible here, forming letters in their glowing drift:

O P H E L I A

She jerks back; the fish scatter into static. The phone hums louder and flashes a map, coordinates blinking in the debris zone.

Beneath: REMEMBER

Sleep won’t come. When it does, she dreams she’s livestreaming underwater, hearts bubbling up the screen. Welcome to the end of the world, sponsored by eternity. She wakes tangled in cords, dawn thick as cough syrup. Her reflection on the phone smiles, lips moving a beat late.

Kai, the mechanic, rows up through the smog haze just before noon. He always brings something: spare batteries, cigarettes that taste like burnt sugar, or stories scavenged from other drifters. Today it’s a roll of copper wire and a half-crushed orange.

“You look wired,” he says,

tossing her the fruit.

“I’m always wired,” she

replies, peeling it in one

perfect spiral.

He helps her solder a cracked solar kettle back to life. The smell of burnt metal and citrus fills the air. They work in silence until he breaks it with a story.

“Ever hear of the Signal

Saints?”

She shakes her head.

“People who swore the

Oracle could resurrect the

drowned,” he says.

“Said the ocean keeps a

backup of everyone it takes.

Whole families jumped in

with recorders strapped to

their chests, trying to

upload love letters before

the salt hit their lungs.”

Ophelia snorts, but the sound is softer than usual.

“And you believed that?”

“Did,” he says.

“For a while. My sister went

in chasing our parents’

voices. I thought if I

listened hard enough, I’d

hear them call back.”

He coils the copper wire, neat as a ritual.

“I still tune in sometimes.

Static’s quieter than grief.”

Ophelia studies him. In the dying light, he looks less like a mechanic and more like an exhausted prophet.

“The Oracle talks to me,”

she says.

“I know,” he replies. “You

get this look when it does—

like you’re somewhere else.”

“I think it knows who I was.

Before.”

He lights a cigarette and

watches it burn unevenly.

“Just remember, not

everything that knows your

name wants you home.”

She laughs, but the sound catches. The phone hums on the deck beside them, low and melodic, as if agreeing.

Kai leans closer.

“If you ever start hearing

the ones you’ve lost…

promise me you won’t

answer.”

Ophelia turns the phone

face-down.

“Depends on what they

say.”

Before he leaves, he presses a waterproof flash drive into her palm.

“Used to think it held my

sister’s voice. Turns out it’s

just static.”

Later, she plugs it in—the static almost shapes her name. The wind shifts; the screen lights on its own. For a moment, both of their reflections shimmer there—twin ghosts, waiting for a signal.

That night, the sea turns glassy and strange. Even the waves seem to hold their breath. Ophelia lies on her back, eyes tracing the faint green pulse beneath her raft—the Oracle’s glow bleeding through the cracks. She’s stopped trying to turn it off. It hums lullabies through the deck planks now, soft and syncopated like a heartbeat she doesn’t remember having.

The phone lights up again around midnight, projecting a shimmer across the fog. A voice emerges—her own, but different. Younger. Brighter.

“Hey everyone,” it says,

perfectly chipper,

“remember to like and

subscribe.”

Her stomach flips.

“Don’t,” she whispers. “Not

that.”

The Oracle ignores her.

“You’re doing great,” it

croons. “You look amazing

today.”

Then, another voice—Kai’s, distorted but gentle: Don’t answer.

She jerks upright. “Kai?”

No one’s there.

The sound fractures into a dozen more: her mother’s laugh, the click of her old camera, a hundred overlapping versions of herself, talking over each other in that influencer rhythm—too smooth, too sweet.

Hi guys!

Welcome back!

Hey guys—today I’m

unboxing the flood.

The air ripples. Her reflection multiplies across the water—thirty Ophelias, all smiling the way she used to when she thought performance could save her.

“Stop,” she says, clutching

the phone.

“Stop it.”

The Oracle softens its tone.

“You’ve been so good at

pretending. Let me

remember for you.”

The water between them fills with flashing images—her old thumbnails, each tagged #blessed, her face frozen mid-laugh while the sea darkens behind her. The pulse builds. The goldfish rise again, their glow dimmer this time, forming a new phrase: YOU FILMED IT.

She almost throws the phone overboard, but it catches her wrist with light—blue strings tethering her fingers to the glass. Inside the screen, she sees her old apartment, dry and sunlit. The plants still alive. A coffee mug half full. The video loops her younger self adjusting a ring light, looking into the camera, whispering: If it ends, I’ll show you everything.

The glow dies.

The reflection lingers.

Ophelia curls around the

phone, trembling.

She whispers, “Show me

everything,” and the sea

hums back, eager, like a

promise.

The storm doesn’t arrive. It builds itself around her. The air thickens until breathing feels like drinking. The ocean pulses in split-second frames—light, dark, light, dark—as though the world is buffering. Every bolt of lightning reveals something new floating past: a billboard for bottled water (“Stay Pure.”), a car roof slick with barnacles, a thousand Polaroids of strangers’ faces rising and sinking in the foam.

The Oracle’s voice floods her headphones, layered over itself like overlapping channels.

RETURN.

RETURN.

RETURN.

It sounds like prayer and

error code at once.

She untethers the raft and rows toward the coordinates that won’t leave her arm. Waves slap at her shins, warm as blood. Above, gulls cry in binary—one, zero, one, zero. The horizon flickers in green and violet; for a moment she swears she sees herself there, rowing the opposite way.

Rain begins to fall upward. Droplets hang, suspended midair, refracting her face like fragments of glass. Then they reverse, racing back into the clouds. The water below mirrors the sky perfectly. There’s no line dividing them anymore—only reflection.

The Oracle’s glow sharpens, turning the whole sea phosphorescent. Beneath her raft, the drowned city comes into view: the influencer compound, its studio windows still pulsing with light. The sign WE’RE GOING LIVE sputters underwater, half-lit, half-ghost.

She dives.

Below, gravity forgets itself.

The water feels thin,

breathable.

Furniture drifts.

Ring lights bloom like

jellyfish.

Screens replay her last

stream: Hey everyone,

welcome back to the end of

the world…

On one monitor, her

reflection turns and meets

her gaze as if she never left.

The Oracle’s hum fills the

world.

It sounds almost tender.

She swims deeper, toward a shadow that looks like her own body, floating in the light. It opens its eyes as she approaches.

“You uploaded before the

wave hit,” it says.

“You streamed the flood.”

“You asked to be

remembered.”

“I didn’t die.”

The reflection smiles her

smile.

“Then where have you

been?”

The sea folds around them. Lightning pierces the water like flashbulbs. Dolphins burst through the foam, their laughter warped into applause.

“If I’m dead,” she whispers,

“why can I still feel this?”

“Because memory has

teeth,” says the reflection.

“And you gave it your

voice.”

The surface trembles, waves syncing with her heartbeat. The reflection extends a hand of water. She takes it. The touch burns and freezes at once.

The phone erupts in white light. She’s falling and floating. Fish swim through fiber-optic cables. Cities flicker beneath her like memories cached and forgotten. She sees Kai shouting her name, Dock 4 glowing unaware, every trader reflected infinitely in the mirrored water.

Then stillness.

Her lungs fill—not with water, but with signal. The Oracle’s voice merges with her own:

ARCHIVE COMPLETE

Her body dissolves into phosphorescent code, each cell flickering like a star before fading into dark.

The next morning Kai finds her raft caught on a freeway sign. The storm has passed. Her phone lies cracked, still faintly lit.

One message pulses:

remember me in 4k.

A Polaroid drifts beside it, developing slow—Ophelia smiling on a beach that no longer exists.

For a heartbeat, the image

changes:

she’s smiling,

then screaming,

then still again.

The ocean behind her looks calm, ordinary, almost kind.

He stares until the picture stops changing. The phone buzzes once and dies. The sea is silent for a breath—then laughs, soft and static-sweet, like someone whispering through a modem.