Nadira Mulyandari
Nadira Mulyandari
Nadira Mulyandari likes to write because she likes to write. She resides in Indonesia, and is still riding the high of the thesis defence committee calling her MA thesis “well written”, instead of focusing on the comments on how to improve the data set.
Summer at the beach
The ocean has been off limits ever since they killed the monster.
They say that it was something in its blood that causes the toxins. Killed by a government sector that’s still under lock and key, they were ready to fire almost as soon as the monster itself appeared. Its bodily liquid seeped into the waterways of the world in the few minutes the dead body lay in the saltwater, before they airlifted it out of the public consciousness. Now every shore than meets the ocean has been fenced, off limits to the public.
But still they sell their tickets.
‘Look at the wonders of the beautiful open seas.’ They say. Where we once swam, where we once played, where we once laughed.
They keep the lounge chairs on white sand, selling a view of what is now forbidden. Overpriced drinks named after the creature, as the paying crowd listens as the white waves hit the swallow walls. Water taps at the asphalt before the coast to wash their feet, with signs that are legally required to assure safety.
They sell the crisp air and a raised view of the glittering water and the make-believe of a life that once was.
At least once a year there will be a news article about some teen jumping the fence, or an elderly person climbing over it, or a child that got away from a parent for just a moment too long. There is almost no need to read further than the headlines, for every story ends the same.
They say it does not feel like anything. But who are they to say. Once the water is accidentally swallowed, the limbs start to hesitate, and a body will float. Just as the creature did.
A solitary body against the backdrop of blue, and everything that they try to sell. The summer’s day, the seagulls squawking hello, the sea that is so untouched. The only difference now is the lack of fanfare, only curiosity for the few seconds of unknowing before they get a glimpse. There is not even space in the public memory to hold onto such information, only a minor reminder when they look back at family photos and the news of the year.2
‘What a shame.’ They will say. As they flip through their albums and hum in indifferent agreement. They do not fault anyone but the victims of fate and fate alone.
One day they will catch another creature. If the sea harbours such life why not the woods, or the skies, or the volcanoes. Underneath our feet, or from crashing meteors. Something just large enough to crush cities, something just weak enough for us to be able to shoot down. Or maybe the already know, where this next creature may lie. What natural resource we will be forgoing next. What horrors we will not be able to comprehend.
And still they will sell their tickets.
As they have always done before.
For what else can they sell but the beauty of the beaches, and the brevity of our empathy.