Ganymeder

Christmas Coral

The small bit of pink seemed to float amid the frozen bubbles as the girl held the clear, translucent globe in her hand. “What is it?” she asked. “It’s lovely.”

“Oh, it’s a paperweight,” said the gent behind the counter. He leaned back in the antique, swivel rocker and stared at ceiling tiles. A fire burned lazily in the old fashioned fireplace of the shop.

“No, I mean…obviously it’s a paperweight, but what IS it?” she said, pointing to the rosy pastel branches inside the glass.

“What? Oh…oh, that. That’s coral.” His mouth twitched slightly. He adjusted the spectacles perched on his reddened nose.

“Coral?” Carrie asked again. Stray wisps of long brown hair fell in front of her eyes as she held the globe closer to her face.  She enjoyed the cool feel of it cradled in her hands. “What’s it for?”

“For?” asked the old man, perking up. “I don’t know that it’s ‘for’ anything, young lady.”

Carrie hated when old people called her ‘young lady.’ She found it condescending.

The shop owner continued. “Coral is a living thing, you know. Not this one, obviously; it’s just a skeleton… of a creature that used to live in the water.”

Her mind immediately went to the frozen lake. She’d never seen such creatures there before, but she could snorkel for them once the ice broke. “Where do they live?  I mean…do they hide under rocks or leaves or something in the water? ”

The old man pushed the glasses up his bulbous nose again, threw his head back and laughed.

Carrie felt stupid. What was his problem?

Snorting a little, the old man took a dirty rag from his shirt pocket and wiped his eyes beneath the lenses.  “Oh…Pardon me, Miss! I didn’t mean…No.”  He sobered up.  “No, my dear, corals are…um, were huge.” He looked up again, this time at a past she couldn’t see. “Coral reefs spanned miles and miles in the Atlantic.” He took in her irritated, puzzled expression.  “No, my dear,” he said, “you’re right. It’s not funny.”  He gathered his thoughts a moment before adding, “It’s rather sad really. No more coral reefs.”  He continued staring into the distance. “And no Atlantic Ocean either. At least,” he added, “not for you.”

“I don’t understand,” the girl said. Atlantic? Ocean? Was this guy crazy?

“Well, the Atlantic was one of several oceans on Earth. They were huge, spread out over the whole planet. They were so huge they never completely froze. Can you imagine that?  There were miles and miles of warm salt water just filled with life. Fish, mammals, and other wonders. The seas were full of color and mystery.”

Listening to the old man, Carrie looked again at the fragment of color in her hand.  From his description, she could almost smell the sharp tang of an ocean filled with a riot of color and life.

The Winter wind blew through a chink in the door, snapping her from her reverie. The old man seemed to snap back to the present too.  He pulled his heavy coat more closely around him before continuing.

“But that was a long time ago,” he said. “Before pollution killed the corals, and most of the fish died.” He looked at her with large, watery eyes. “All that’s left now is sad little remnants of the past.”  He nodded at the sphere. “Like the one you hold in your hands.”

She looked at him, shocked.

“Are you saying this is an actual ‘Earth Relic?’”  She could barely get the words out.

The old man nodded. “Go on, my dear. Take it. I’m afraid it’s about all my generation can give today’s youth. That and stories.”

Carrie cradled the glass orb in her gloved hands, nodded to the old man, and left. The bell made a pleasant tinkling noise as the wooden door shut behind her.  She realized the old man was living history, just as the coral she held was a piece of history too.  They both told stories of the past, and she, for one, was ready to listen.

THE END.

*The inspiration for this story comes from George Orwell’s 1984 and Winston’s coral paperweight.

This entry was posted on Friday, December 4th, 2009 at 7:44 am and is filed under Flash Fiction, Writing Corner. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.