It knows, before the land does, that it’s dying. Once where it spiraled down ocean valleys and navigated continental twists at pace, now the arctic melt makes it sluggish. Still, no matter how sick it gets, it knows where the most recent wreck lies. Where the submarines go to uproot seabeds and suck down mineral nodes.
Foolish, it thinks. They won’t be around to use them.
In its last days, it beaches itself upon a shore in Washington. A girl stands, her toes in the wet sand, and it licks her feet. They taste of metal, and it wishes it could tug her out beyond the breach. Show her what waves disturbing pebbles on a Scottish shore sound like.
Silly, since Scotland’s gone.
Like generations before her, she sets a bottle in its pacific collarbone. It knows it can’t take it across the world like it used to but, oh, it must try. For the girl with her serious eyes. It heaves and limps back out, but soon the bottle only bobs in place in the widened doldrum. As it gives into stillness for a final time, it reads through the glass:
What if it’s not too late?
Patina St. Austin loves amigurumi, tiny stories, and her cat, Amidala. She does not, in fact, love Star Wars. You can find her writing near the coast in Maine.
This story was shortlisted in the April 24 Monthly Micro Competition.