Laton Carter's fiction appears in The Boiler, Indiana Review, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Necessary Fiction, New Flash Fiction Review and Slackjaw. Carter is a middle school teacher in Western Oregon.
MICROPLASTIC MAN
The daughter shrieked. Because her mother was used to the sounds her child made at play, the mother did nothing. She was attempting to read a magazine. The umbrella was in the right place, the towel wasn’t yet sand-covered, and her swimsuit seemed to reflect light. The arrangement of things was just so, like a professionally lit photograph. But photographs didn’t exist. At least not for her daughter.
“Mummy!” cried the girl. A figure was appearing out of the surf. It did somewhat resemble a mummy. “Mummy, a man! It’s a man, Mummy!”
The girl’s mother looked over her sunglasses. If only she could step outside her body and witness the image of herself holding a magazine while looking over her glasses. Maybe then she could focus on the article. It helped to know how you appeared.
“Mummy! Mummy, Mummy!”
Now the mother saw it. A figure, humanoid in shape. Was it unclothed? It materialized in primary colors—stipples of washed blue, red, and yellow. Whatever it was, it was a mess. Out of focus. With some effort, the figure tromped through the sand. Its posture was all wrong.
“Excuse me,” said the thing.
The magazine dropped to her lap. The shape before her was a blur, though supplied with human attributes. A head, arms, the usual.
“I’m sorry,” the mother said. “I don’t have any money.”
“Oh, I’m not—” said the thing. “It’s just—I was able to break free, so I thought—”
The mother gathered up her knees.
“The garbage gyre,” the thing continued. It pointed to the water. “My home.”
“Oh. Your—”
“It’s another word for tidepool. Out in the Pacific. The Great Garbage Gyre. Straws, pill bottles, bags, yogurt lids, you name it.”
“Well—new word for me—that’s good to know.”
The thing remained in front of her, dripping ocean water. She’d said all the appropriate words, hadn’t she? It seemed time for it to leave.
“G-Y-R-E.” The mother nodded, her grin frozen. “I get that a lot,” continued the thing.
“The spelling. It’s a common question. Speaking of which.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“What? No—my roommate, Allen. He says we might be related.”
“You’re…related to your roommate?”
“Ha! No, I mean you. You and me. We might be related! Or really, all of us.”
“I see. Well—"
The thing went on to describe Roommate Allen’s terrestrial adventure. When Allen returned home, he couldn’t stop with the word bioaccumulation. Gyre residents, Allen reported, were everywhere, broken down into the smallest of particles by sun and sea. He’d learned this in Cabo San Lucas from a high school science teacher on mental health leave. Water, land—Allen mimicked the rambling—blood, saliva, muscle, even air. A “revelation.” This was Allen’s term. Then he’d changed his mind. No, unification. No, it was an invitation. Yes, a grand invitation—at last!—to forge a bond between the living world of consumption and the detritus of its castoffs. Across the teacher’s shirt, curly lettering proclaimed A MOMENT OF SCIENCE, PLEASE.
The daughter had ceased shrieking. What had occupied her previously reoccupied her. Towers leaned and collapsed into motes. The sun commenced its descent, dispersing light across the water. Pink was pretty. Happy things should look like this. The mother adjusted the straps of her bathing suit, spying the unmarked skin beneath.