Rachel Krumholtz: Seagulls
/Seagulls
by Rachel Krumholtz ’21
The seagulls circle the city, swooping over its glistening turrets and boxy edifices. Their wings glitter ominously, coated in a thick, viscous layer of oil. Rising above the murky fumes produced from the steeples below, they instinctively gaze at the water, subconsciously yearning for clear blue waves, for fish. But the fish were long gone; they had disappeared nearly twenty-five years ago. Submerged beneath years’ worth of tattered clothing, discarded boxes, and unused plastic dumped unceremoniously into the once-transparent waters, the sparkle of their scales began to dim, and one by one their lifeless bodies floated to the surface of the water, limp and vulnerable. The seagulls continued spiraling, their bright and inquisitive eyes looking, searching for a place to land.
A young adolescent grinds his cigarette underneath his boot. The workers, clad in white protective suits, dump the port city’s waste into the adjacent waters. The girl looks on from her balcony window, her face pressed against the glass. Turning away from the chaos, she walks down the stairs, her toddler feet still unsteady in their strides. Upon entering the small, dimly lit kitchen, the man turns and smiles at his daughter. Years of affliction had eroded a deep set of lines on his forehead, his cheeks inscribed with a pattern of wrinkles, and his eyes a plethora of sorrow. The man, cherished by the entire community for his kindness, was descended from a long line of fishermen, and left with no profession after the oceans were wiped clean of life. Now, he devotes his entire life to the preservation of the ocean–––transporting the ocean’s garbage to an on-land site, saving any remaining wildlife.
Wrapped in a woolen fleece, the girl, who has never left her father, boards the ship, her small boots sliding across the deck. The ship is poorly built, the only one he could afford. The worn, cotton sail has begun to disintegrate under the light showers of rain, and the bow slopes downward.
The first night on the ship is bitterly cold, a cold that stings and bites at any exposed skin. Looking worriedly at his shivering daughter, the man wraps her in a quilt sewn by her mother. The quilt depicts clear, blue waters, refreshing, invigorating air, and flourishing aquatic plants and animals, images only seen in picture books, only in dreams. Each stitch portrays the reflection of the glimmering sun in the water, in water without waste.
Snuggling into the crook of her father’s arm, the girl playfully traces the calluses on his weather-worn fingers until the rocking of the boat lulls her to sleep. As he listens to her steady breaths, the man studies her face, his protective eyes never leaving hers until sleep closes his eyelids. The man dreams about the girl, her fragrant smell permeating through his mind, nearly as vivid as life. As he rolls over in his sleep, his arm loosens around his daughter and his mind takes a different turn. The sweet smell of flowers enveloping the girl becomes sickly, nearly cloying.
A splash. A shriek.
The man bolts awake and looks around frantically. The boat is flooded with garbage, the bow of the ship completely submerged in water. But it is just the man and rubbish in the boat.
His daughter.
He rushes to the edge of the boat, hands trembling with anxiety. Grabbing onto the edge of the rickety rail, he scans the water for any disruption. Then he sees it: a wisp of black hair, a small pink boot. The man watches, horrified, as he sees his daughter’s crystal blue eyes above the murky water. Her body sinks, covered by thick, dark sludge.
What have I done? The man shrieks in horror, his voice cracking with grief. What have we done? Through his racing thoughts, the fisherman begins rummaging around the ship for something, and realizes the quilt is gone.
Overcome with sorrow, the man’s knees buckle and his head sinks to his hands; all around him, more garbage and water seep through the cracked floorboards. The seagulls watch, silent onlookers, as the boat sinks. The weather-worn, stiff sail is submerged in the water, its loose threads slowly unraveling. Garbage weighs down the boat until the man’s head is underwater, and briny, black water fills his mouth. Lungs burning, he propels himself up, gasping for air, but is pushed down again by another wave of trash. The seagulls watch from above, expectantly. The man does not surface again.
Back in the port city, alarms pierce the still air. Each ring is a single tone, lasting for several seconds, a dreaded sound. Suddenly, as if shocked, the city springs to life. Chaos reigns, the streets become crowded, people shove their way through the crowds, abandoned toddlers wail, and cars jostle their way forward. All this disorder is directed towards a single road, heading out of the city. In the midst of the mob, a woman in a black petticoat stands frozen, her eyes closed, and her hand gripping the wrist of her small son. “Momma, momma,” the little boy cries, tugging on his mother’s skirts. “What is happening?” The woman remains frozen, her thin lips pressed together with anxiety. “Momma!” the boy yells. The woman opens her eyes and focuses on her son, as if waking up from a reverie.
“The sea levels have risen significantly,” she answers with alarm. “We need to evacuate the city. Now.” And with those words, she starts to run, dragging her now sobbing son along with her, melding into the crowd.
The seagulls watch from above, and as if affected from the emotions below, they begin to drop from the sky. They are tired of searching for a place to land, for food to eat, and for clean air to breathe. As tears leak from the boy’s eyes, he looks up at their blurred shapes plummeting to the ground.
The vacant sky is now only occupied with fumes and smog. Simultaneously, thick, stormy clouds fill the sky and erupt in fat, black raindrops. The volume of the screams in the city below heightens when it begins to pour. A droplet lands on the palm of the boy, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, he keeps running.