Clifford does sci fi

On 4/2/07, Sara Watson wrote:

It is the 22^nd centaury. The hole in the ozone layer has widened to encompass the whole southern hemisphere. In order to leave the house I must take a portable shield that hovers above my head, filtering out the harsh rays. No one looks up anymore. I see them as they pass my house, taking careful steps, watching their feet, out to places of work or leisure.

It is a Sunday. Today I have no chores to complete and my mother has allowed me out to talk a walk. I step out of our sealed chamber and walk toward the ocean. The bay is walled off from the outer sea with transparent plastic. The water is murky, my grandmother told me it was green once. This used to be the one of the most beautiful countries, full of greenery and clear water, so clear. She used to stay that when she walked with me. At least the plastic keeps out the stench of the sea, it smells rotten, like this island is rotten.

There was a storm last night, the usual kind with lightening electrifying the air particles. The air is always thick, transparent, yet I feel it on my skin. The sand is grey, the sea a pinkish brown. I stop on the beach and activate my hover chair that keeps me from touching the sand. I put on thick gloves and take out a small shovel from the canister attached to my shield. I sit on the chair and turn over the sand below.

Today my efforts are fruitful. I find three pieces of metal with fluted edges and rusty ancient logos on top. The all contain the word ‘beer’, but I cannot think what that could be. I dig further. The top layer of sand has been swept away in the storm, so that the sand almost has a colour to it. I strike something hard, it makes a hollow thud against my shovel. I carefully dig around it, I don’t want to damage it, or for it to crumble through my fingertips, like so many other found treasures.

I brush away the sand gently and lift out a metal box. I am excited by my find, thinking of the story of Treasure Island that my grandmother read to me on stormy nights. I use the end of the shovel to prise open the lid. Inside is some unsophisticated plastic that glints in the light. I can just make out pictures of some stylized flowers in lines on the plastic. I pick one out. It is a small sheet, a bit smaller than my palm, each end is rumpled, but the centre is smooth, as if they have been wrapped around something in the centre. Parts of the plastic are transparent with age and water rot, but I can faintly read a word on the side. “Roses” I breathe the word aloud. It means nothing to me. This box is so beautiful, full of ancient things. I paw at the box and my hand hits something hard. In amongst the plastic wrappers is something small and round. I think it must be a stone, as it is cool and heavy, yet I have never seen one so smooth and white. It jogs something in my memory of a picture I once saw of a beach entirely covered in stones of all colours. I pack up and head home, stowing the stone in a pocket on my breast. Once home I place it on my shelf and it seems to shine like a tiny moon, but whole instead of broken into pieces.

I think of how it came to be on my beach in an old box. Whoever put it there must have been long gone from this place. This piece out of the past is so precious. As I go to sleep I think of the present and the past that few remember.

“I remember” I whisper to the stone, yet I know that my memories are just stories told to me by my grandmother. I turn over and watch the shattered moon through my window until my eyelids become heavy and I drift into a deep sleep.