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Winner for the most creative entry in the RTHK/SCMP short story competition:
Beach Party
by P. K. Pebbles
My name is Pebbles, though for much of my existence I was without a name.
That was before the lady with the pink hat came along. I like the name. It suits
me. It’s something to aspire to. The P. K. stands for Pak Kok, a name of place
rather than character.
I came into being 6,000 years ago, give or take. My “birth” was not so much a
big bang, but a gradual shifting of forces molded by destiny. My mother sat
200 kilometres south of here at the edge of a vast plain until the sea levels
rose and obscured her, allowing me to make an appearance on the world.
And here I am. Pretty cool, eh?
The first few thousand years were magnificent – a series of skies, seas and
mountain vistas. Yet after so long looking at it, I found it a bit dull. Sure, there
were some pretty amazing sunsets, squally weather that got me all of a quiver
and some lovely bugs, birds and the occasional beasty to gaze upon, but not
much else. I was spoilt. I didn’t realize what I had - nature’s canvass at its
best laid out just for me.
Then one day, I saw something I never had before. Of course, I’d seen
creatures leap out of the water or fly across the sky. My mum had witnessed
some that after a few thousand years evolved and moved from their watery
home onto the land. Pretty amazing that – growing some legs and learning to
breathe in air instead of water! There were similar changes going on in front of
me, I suppose, but at the time these made me yawn. It was soooo slow. Then
suddenly I saw something new and exciting.
People.
Sure I’d heard about them – news travels on the tide, don’t you know? At first
I rejoiced to see the daily appearance of a fishing boat or two across my line
of vision. It was fascinating to watch the people standing upright as they
maneuvered oars much longer than themselves. Crouching, talking, fishing,
moving - all those things I cannot do. I watched from a distance, getting to
know their habits and characteristics and I was awestruck!
Looking back, it was a golden period. I was having the time of my life. I was
undisturbed, yet occupied, watching the growing industry of human activity,
not just on the water but on the hillside opposite too. On the far shore,
hundreds upon hundreds of tiny boxes were being stacked one on top of the
other. At night these sparkled like stars. Of course, I couldn’t see the real
stars so much anymore, and the vessels that I watched seemed to grow in
number and size before me. There were, though, still times of peace when the
moonlight shone on the water in front of me.
I should have been satisfied, but I wasn’t. I was lonely.
Then one day, I heard a shout followed by squeals of delight. A man and a
lady, both dressed in red robes gingerly worked their way over the big flat rock
on my outer edge. Then more and more people appeared. They put down
their belongings and took off their shoes and started walking all over me.
Some sat down too and caressed me. It was lovely!
They stayed with me for hours laughing, singing, eating and drinking until at
last when the sun was beginning to disappear, they returned the way they had
come. It was the best day ever.
After that I opened my heart to people. I wanted to share more joy, to be part
of their celebration. It had been good to watch the traffic, but better to
experience people close up – to share their love and be loved. I breathed to
my brothers and sisters everywhere, sending my message with the tide. And I
heard back the most wonderful stories from all around the world, where
people and nature were celebrating life together wherever the land met the
sea.
But after that first party, there were no more celebrations for a while. Perhaps
I was too remote? Or perhaps the weather was too inclement? Needless to
say I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. I thought I had been forgotten. So,
you can imagine my delight when one day, a fishing boat tossed something in
my direction.
A gift.
A white box. Now what would I do with a white box? But, thank you very
much, anyway. If it’s from people, it must be good, right? Of course, I didn’t
want to appear rude, so I kept it. Didn’t have much choice really. My lack of
bodily form, particularly those close clever devices that you people have on
the ends of your arms, prevented me from doing otherwise.
Then there were other things. Bottles, some of which broke into jagged pieces
that were gradually made smooth by the sea. More white boxes, some of
which got broken into millions of white beads, smothering me. More bottles
made of a substance that never seemed to disappear.
People still came to visit me and sometimes they left things behind. Or
perhaps they were giving me gifts too? But then they stopped coming near
me. If they did stumble across me, the looks on their faces showed their
disgust and they soon moved away from me. I couldn’t blame them. I was
starting to smell. But what could I do? I didn’t ask for to be this way and you
can’t escape from yourself.
And then I realized. The gifts that you people were sending me were not gifts
at all. It was trash.
How could this happen? I was so loved and now so loathsome. At the same
time, something happened to my sky. The magic that I had so long taken for
granted, now obscured by a murky haze. I began to desperately long for what
I once had. Give me back my stars. Give me back my sky, my mountains and
greenery. Stop trashing me. Give me back my soul.
My only respite was the wild, wild weather that thrashed me clean. But that
relief was short lived. It all came back or, as I know, it was taken to my
siblings on far off shores who were all suffering just like me. I even heard on
the tide that trash was floating across the expanse of a great ocean,
entangling and destroying so many creatures of the air and sea.
Then one day, the lady in a pink hat visited me. She made the same face as
all the rest and the man she was with said, “Come on, love. We can’t stay
here with the kids.” The lady looked sad and left, followed by her children.
“But mummy,” said the little girl. “Why can’t we stay at the beach?”
Oh children, I wish you could.
Soon after that, the lady came back with other people. They started picking up
the trash, sorting it into piles, counting it, putting it into bags, taking it away. I
felt so much better, but the relief did not last. The trash came back. I began to
feel desolate, but again, the lady in the pink hat came back, bring with her
new people, children too, to help. And I was cleaned again.
Time after time, the lady in the pink hat returned, always bringing different
people with her. I loved the children – the young boy counting plastic bottles
and shaking his head saying, “This is so wrong.” I also enjoyed the people in
uniform. They were really good at getting rid of the nasty stuff. They had
strong fingers and stronger stomachs. They removed a dead pig once, and a
couple of rats. You know things are bad when even the rats can’t stand it.
Again and again the lady in the pink hat came back, but the trash kept
returning. Sometimes, in the time it took for the people to move the bags up to
the road, a new line of debris was already at my shore.
Would it ever end? In one year alone, the lady in the pink hat and her friends
collected 2,872 plastic bottles and hundreds of juice boxes. Remarkably, there
was a small, but persistent flow of plastic bottles full of pee. Now, who would
pee into a plastic bottle and throw it into the sea? And why? The lady in the
pink hat and her friends also took away so many food wrappers, cups, lunch
boxes, lighters, pens, plastic forks, spoons and straws. One day they decided
to count the lighters. They collected 130 of them. I heard them call the lighters
“disposable” – a term I simply cannot understand. They also picked up so
much polystyrene – some in the form of boxes, some (I was to learn) fruit
wrappers and some that had formed a kind of bead soup in all my most
intimate cracks and crevices. It was good to get rid of that, I can tell you!
At different times, two enormous tyres washed up, as did a mattress, a
computer monitor, several workman’s helmets, oil drums, a punch bag,
lighting tubes and bulbs, silicone tubes, lighter fuel canisters, an assorted
array of beauty product containers, toothbrushes and every time, without fail,
an astounding selection of shoes. Each time, there would be a point when the
lady in the pink hat said, “I’ll take that,” and she would hold a needle and
syringe between her thumb and finger, placing it carefully in a special
container.
One day, the people gathered round a bag of mixed trash. They were
laughing, but they didn’t seem happy and they photographed the bag. One
person helped translate the writing on the bag. It said, “Keep Clean. Hong
Kong Marine Department. For enquiries call: 1823.” I didn’t see what was so
funny about that.
Each time, the people would separate the plastic bottles and then the lady in
the pink hat would sit with a clipboard, recording numbers as other people
shouted out, “Vita,” “Bonaqua,” “Watson’s,” “Vita again,” “Cool – it so not
cool!” “What’s this one?” “Hung Fook Tong,” “Mr. Kon,” “Robiff Oolong” “More
Vita,” “Bonaqua…”
I was so afraid that the lady in the pink hat would just give up. I sometimes
glimpsed the look of despair on her face as she approached me, just a few
short weeks from all her previous efforts. Then I saw her mouth fixed in
determination and that’s why I am happy, oh so happy, today.
Today, I am clean. Restored. A joy. Happy people are sitting on me. The
children are doing what they should be doing on a beach. They are picking up
shells and worn glass, and running excitedly to mummy and daddy to show
the treasures that they have found. Nature’s treasures. People are having a
picnic. They are enjoying me, loving me, valuing me, celebrating me, and all
that life has to offer.
The party’s over. Now it is just me, the moon and the tide. The sparking lights
over in those little boxes you people like to live in make me feel safe and
content. They fill me with the warmth of your care.
But far away, and getting closer, a white box bobs, glinting in the moonlight. A
hand reaches out from a small boat, snatching the box from the sea. Then, I
sleep and wonder what tomorrow will bring.
The End.
_________________ Click here for Lamma-zine stories and recent Lamma Spotlights of the Week:
Photo, Video, Person, Wildlife, Bird, Artwork.
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