Upside Down

by Jaym Gates

  Thomas peeked into the bedroom. I knew we were going to be late for my graduation party at his parents’ house, but I didn’t care; it had taken longer than I thought to get a clear connection through a phone line. I waved him away. He shot me a sharp look.

  “I graduated today, Oma. I have a PhD now.”

  I knew she didn’t quite understand what a PhD was, but I needed to tell her. Somehow, even a decade after I had left, nothing felt real to me until I shared it with her.

  “And Oma, I have more good news. I was offered a job as a geneticist at the Oceanic Institute. Isn’t that great?”

  “When are you coming home?”

  I lifted the tint from the window and leaned against the glass. The full moon hung above San Francisco, dimmed by the city’s bright skyline. I imagined where Korea lay in the distance, across the ocean. If I closed my eyes, I could picture our cove when I was awake, but I never saw it in my dreams any more. For years after I had left, I dreamt of the water every night —surrounded by the blue silence, feeling the breathing of the tide around me, in and out. But then my dreams stopped, and I couldn’t remember when, like a lost limb I didn’t know was cut off.

  “Mi Sun, can you hear me?”

  I touched my hair. It had hardened and was firm.

  “I’ll be home soon.”

  #

  There was life.

  I smiled and looked closer. Small bumps of coral rose on the sandy bottom inside the tank.

  “I did it.”

  Though I was alone in my lab, I spoke the words aloud, I did it. The new strains of coral that I’d engineered were thriving in the same conditions that had killed most of the ocean’s reefs — the same acidity, the same concentrations of iodine, cesium, and uranium.

  At the Institute, I’d revived eight species of fish, re-engineering their DNA to survive in the ocean, but they had all died when introduced into the wild. Coral was the key to everything, I was sure of it. The reefs were the foundation for all sea life — to save the ocean I needed to start at the base, or nothing would be sustainable. And now, after three years, my coral polyps were ready to be relocated into the sea.

  I rubbed my eyes. I couldn’t see the clock, but I knew it was late. I should call, but I decided not to disturb Thomas’ sleep. I would just stay in the lab again — I didn’t mind, I slept better when surrounded by the tanks of salt water. It was the smell, I thought.

  I took off my shoes and closed my eyes. I did it, Oma. You’ll see. It’s not too late, the seas will live again. I imagined the cove outside the village, as if I were young, my net tight with the weight of my catch, rising up through a shoal of fish.

  For the first time in years, that night, I dreamed of the sea.

  #

  From the ferry, the island looked so small, no larger than my thumb. My hair blew across my face in whips and snaps. I hadn’t styled it, knowing that it would upset my mother seeing it that way.

  To the east, the waning crescent moon shone brightly against the dark sky. The new moon would rise in a few days. I remembered my mother’s story of the Moon goddess that she would tell me on my birthdays.

  The Moon goddess has abandoned us, I thought bitterly. Her song has quieted and in her silence, the ocean has died.

  I couldn’t stop it. All my polyp farms had died in the ocean. Every one. I’d altered the genetic makeup countless times over, each time letting myself believe that the sea would begin healing, but the reefs never grew.

  When I stepped off the ferry, I could see how much the island had changed. A water amusement park and casino now covered most of the area west of the port. The air smelled like hamburgers. The old noodle house was gone. The teashop was also gone, in its place, a nightclub. The fishmonger had closed his doors years ago, driven out of business by the cheap shellfish being engineered on the mainland.

  Our village had changed even more. The road was overgrown with weeds, and most of the old wooden houses were rotting and boarded up. As I approached our home with my bags, I was surprised by how small it looked. It had never felt small to me before.

  I pushed the front door open. “Oma, I’m home.”

  My mother looked up from the table, sitting exactly where she had been when I’d left.

  “You must be hungry,” she said. She went to the stove and returned with a bowl of soup and a steaming mug of hot barley tea.

  I sat on the floor across from her. I tasted her soup and was overwhelmed by the sudden rush of memories — my mother’s hands holding me in the water when she first taught me how to swim, the glimmering sun through the waves, the taste of salt on my lips. I stirred the conch meat with my spoon. When I was younger, we rarely ate the seafood we caught, needing to sell it for money. But I knew that now there wasn’t enough shellfish for her to sell, so she ate what she caught.

  My mother’s hair had turned completely white. Her skin, once dark and tough, was thin and brittle, like onionskin across her hands and neck. I took a sip of my tea and noticed a crack down the side of the mug. My old gathering net still hung on the wall, which was stained with water damage, the paint peeling off in flakes.

  “Did you get the money I sent last month?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe you could hire someone to fix up the house.”

  “Why?”

  “Oma, you don’t have to stay here. Come back to California with me. I have plenty of room. You’ll like it there.”

  I said the words, but they were just continuations of all the lies I had been telling her. I knew she would never leave the island. I knew I wouldn’t be in California either. Our house was already half empty, my belongings in boxes in a storage unit. Thomas and I had tried to make our marriage work, but in the end, there was nothing we could do. What was meant to fall apart could never stay together. Some people stayed. Others left. I was the one who left. Throw away anything I left behind, I wrote on a piece of yellow paper and put it on my pillow.

  If this is how it all ends, why did I ever leave? I failed. I failed at everything. I’m sorry, Oma. I should have stayed. I should have stayed with you. I wanted to hear her voice tell me what to do. Tell me to stay. But I said nothing.

  I felt my mother’s eyes. I bit my bottom lip, forcing back my tears.

  “Mi Sun, I was wrong to try to keep you here. Our way of life is dead, and I will die with it. But you are still alive. This life was never yours. I know that now. Find the strength inside, and go on. And do not stop. Promise me. Go further. Further than me. Sing louder than me. Your song will be different. I can hear it. I can hear you.”

  She placed her hand on mine. It was warm, like the summer ocean. With her touch, I felt full. I wiped my eyes and held her hand.

  “Oma, can I dive with you tomorrow?”

  #

  My legs tensed under the weight of the air tanks as I stepped out from the warm Florida water. I disliked diving with tanks, but the polyp farm I inspected was too deep to free dive.

  I walked across the shore to my campsite, the setting sun casting my shadow across the sand in the shape of a sword. I lowered my tank onto the ground and rinsed my face with fresh water from a canteen. Inside the tent, I marked down my notes from my day’s inspection in my logbook; I kept my notes by hand, a part of me that was still traditional. For the past two years, it was always the same note. The polyp farms had not formed into reefs. There was no new growth. No life.

  The tent’s panels chimed as the satellite received an incoming signal. I glanced at the screen mounted on the side of the tent. The call was from the Oceanic Institute. I opened a connection.

  “Hi, Sam. I’m sorry that my report’s late. I had to delay the inspection of a few sites because of the current.”

  “Mi Sun, you need to turn on the news.”

  “What is it?” I opened another channel.

  The storm hit suddenly. The ocean swelling, rising over the land, from Kochi to Shanghai. But the heart of the wave hit Korea, swallowing Pusan, Mokpo, and all
the southern islands. I saw the water rush over Marado Island, the fancy resorts and our village, all crushed into splinters, washed away.

  “Mi Sun, I’m so sorry.”

  It was as if all my blood had drained from my body, I felt empty, then my emptiness filled with cold. I stumbled out of the tent and ran to the water. I tore off my clothes and swam into the ocean.

  My mother was the last mermaid of Korea.

  I see her. Her body rolling as the wave crashes over her. Her legs kick and she rises to the surface. I know the ocean couldn’t have taken her if she wasn’t ready to die. My mother was too strong. She would have beaten the storm, fighting until the swell had fallen and the ocean was still. I should have been with her. She would have fought if we had been together.

  I see her face as she decides to take in her final breath. Her body calms as if falling asleep. And she gives herself to the ocean. The water accepts her and takes her home.

  I see her sinking. Her body silhouetted against the shimmering sun above. Slowly sinking.

  I should have been with her. I should have been with her.

  I swam until the muscles in my shoulders and legs burned.

  I kicked below the surface. I wrapped my arms around my knees and held still in the water. Weightless.

  I closed my eyes tightly. Salt mixed with salt.

  I screamed until my breath was gone.

  #

  My first memory was of the ocean. Now the ocean is dead.

  The rising sun broke over the horizon as I folded the tent and placed it into its shell. I had taken down the rest of the campsite the day before. That morning’s inspection was to be my last dive before I left Florida, probably for the final time. I had run out of pages in my logbook weeks earlier, but it didn’t matter. The notes never changed.

  I started the engine on my small boat and steered it east. When I saw that I was above the site, I dropped anchor. It was a shallow site, a depth of about forty feet, so I ignored my scuba equipment. I put on my mask and fell backwards into the water.

  I took six quick breaths followed by a long one, filling my lungs as my mother had taught me to do years ago, and kicked down below the surface. As I swam deeper, I was comforted by the stillness of the water that covered me. After all this time, the ocean was still the only place I ever found peace.

  I had cut off all my hair the night before with a blade. I didn’t know why, I just wanted it all gone. The tingling sensation of the salt water against my bare scalp was unlike anything I’d ever felt before, cool then hot.

  Below me, I saw the white tags marking the location of the polyp farm. I pinched my nose with my fingers and sharply exhaled, clearing the building pressure in my ears.

  As I descended, I closed my eyes and said a prayer — a nameless prayer — a single word. Please.

  I kicked deeper, and upon reaching the site, I carefully searched the sand for any signs of growth. I saw only broken shells and rock. Dead skeletons.

  I’m sorry. Oma, I tried. I’m so sorry.

  I kicked up but stopped my ascent. There. Several meters north of the site. I swam closer. A small piece of staghorn coral rose from the sand like a budding tree. It was no larger than my finger. But it was alive. It was healthy. The polyps must have drifted during a storm. I kicked deeper and saw two more pieces of living coral, even smaller, but growing. But there was life. There was life.

  And then I heard her.

  A beautiful song filled the ocean like a warm caress of light, echoing in the water around my entire body. I heard the song again. The song of a goddess. So lovely.

  A dark shape approached me through the shimmering rays of sunlight. My eyes widened as a humpback whale swam closer. She was strong and beautiful, her belly as white as a cloud. My heart leapt when I saw her calf swimming close to her side. The calf was slightly larger than me; she must have been born only weeks before.

  The calf tried to sing, but she couldn’t — her voice was weak and her song broke. The mother gently brushed against her daughter. The calf tried again, and her voice sang loudly, resounding brightly through the water.

  Mother and daughter swam so close to me that I could have reached out and touched them. The mother whale’s eyes were warm, smiling at me as she passed. As they disappeared into shades of blue, I heard them once more. The mother sang, and her daughter echoed her song.

  Nouns of Nouns: A Mini Epic

  Alex Shvartsman

  Act 1

  Back in the time immemorial — before they invented the concept of time, or memories, or even ims — trouble was brewing. The Grand Earldom of Cliché was preparing to go to war against the fiefdom of Truism over a single handkerchief.

  As in most dramas, the inciting incident of this conflict was a simple misunderstanding. With the best of intentions, the Grand Earl of Cliché had complimented the Baron of Truism on his almost-clean silk hanky as being “a lovely shade of green.”

  Since timekeeping hadn’t been invented yet, the Baron of Truism had unknowingly committed the faux pas of imbibing large quantities of mead before five o’clock. His judgment thus impaired, the Baron responded at length. He opened with a rambling lecture about how lime should be considered a shade of yellow rather than green, proceeded to cast aspersions on the character of anyone who might disagree with this assertion, and closed with calling the Earl a stupid dick.

  The Earl, quick with a retort as he was with a compliment, stated that lime was too a shade of green. He would have liked to point out that the Baron’s accusation of stupidity was the case of the pot calling the kettle black, but idioms hadn’t been invented yet, and the kettle was presently in use, brewing trouble. Instead he settled for insulting the Baron’s lineage, personal hygiene, and finally his “gaudy green handkerchief.”

  Of course, this meant war.

  Act 2

  The Baron of Truism called in a favor from the local chapter of the Necromancers Union, which furnished him with an army of two dozen undead.

  Union zombies were expensive, slow-moving, and spent most of their time standing around and watching one or two of their number do the actual fighting or menacing. Still, they were a malevolent force of magical creatures, and the Grand Earl of Cliché would be damned if he’d let his foe show him up like that.

  The Earl went on a long and laboriously described quest to assemble a preternatural fighting force of his own. He rode horses, and stayed at inns, and ate lots and lots of stew. He returned to his Earldom a little wiser, a lot sunburned, and with a motley collection of mystical warriors.

  There was a flea-bitten werewolf who scratched incessantly at his mangy fur and smelled like wet hair, two slow-moving tree monsters whose bark was worse than their bite, and a half-Elf bard who moonlighted as a town crier or, as she preferred to call it, a social media expert.

  The Earl supplemented his fighting force with a regimen of farm boys, which were widely known as both the number-one source of destiny-bound heroes in the land and the number-four source of protein in an average dragon’s diet.

  The armies met at high noon, give or take a few hours — the concept of time still hadn’t been invented yet. On the battlefield the farm boys brandished their cheap swords, the tree monsters molted, and the zombies whistled and catcalled for the half-Elf to take off her hat and show off her large brain.

  The battle lasted for twenty-four pages.

  Act 2.5

  This is where the author took a seven-year-long break before completing the next act.

  Act 3

  In the darkest moment of the battle (figuratively, not literally, since it was close to noontime), when the farm boys’ sword arms grew tired, and the zombies were dangerously close to their union-mandated break, and the author was out of ideas as to how to resolve this conflict, a new threat emerged.

  The Grim Lord of the Dark Murkiness, the infamous Duke of Ex Machina rode onto the battlefield at the head of an army of evil henchmen.

  The Duke was once an accountant named B
ob who found a magic portal to a fantasy land. The author spent a considerable amount of time figuring out his backstory, but chose not to share it with the readers, so he could feel smug and superior to them in his knowledge.

  The Duke didn’t care about the color of the handkerchief, but he was very interested in subjugating and/or slaughtering both the fiefdom of Truism and the earldom of Cliché because he was unspeakably evil (probably due to his prolonged exposure to tax forms.)

  And so it came to be that the two foes banded together against a common enemy. The farm boys fought the henchmen, and the zombies fought the henchmen, and the tree monsters stood there and provided comfortable shade for everyone to fight in.

  The evil henchmen were winning, and with only a few minutes left in the battle, it was dark tidings for the combined forces of the Baron and the Earl. (Figuratively, not literally, since it was still close to noontime.) But then the werewolf dodged the scimitar-wielding henchmen, gave wide berth to the spear-wielding henchmen, lifted his leg briefly to mark one of the tree monsters as his territory, finally ran up to the Duke, who was riding atop a corrupted unicorn, and bit him on the shin.

  The Duke yelped in an un-villain-like fashion and rode off in search of tetanus shots, and also to leave a passive-aggressive review of the battle on Yelp: (Two stars. Wouldn’t recommend.) The evil henchmen shrugged, packed away their scimitars and spears, and left.

  There was much rejoicing, and the Earl and the Baron hugged each other and apologized for their earlier behavior.

  “I can absolutely see how lime could appear more yellow than green,” admitted the Earl. “It’s not worth arguing over. What’s important is that it’s a fine handkerchief, and it goes so well with your fuchsia cravat.”