Amy Akiko (South London, UK)
“You’ve almost stolen everything… and why?” the little turtle cried, his words expressed in silent bubbles, as the last of his family were swallowed whole by the sprawling mouth, with a thousand nylon teeth, his heart racing faster than the Great Whites of the past, who had vanished months before.
He looked down at the reef of discarded straws, that sipped on seawater, synthetic bags exhaustedly hanging onto the colossal structure’s swaying spines, having swam many miles, from continents afar.
Some of the strange creatures seemed to age like people—their skin sagging and thinning with time, the youthful shade of their ginger-orange gradually fading into whites and greys. But none of the creatures ever seemed to die.
The little turtle gawped at the new species of tin fish, their round mouths flapping closed and open, consuming the tiny plastic plankton, spitting them out with the next ebb of a wave, unable to swallow. The artificial ecosystem never seemed to notice the little turtle much. Although every few days, a fragment of jaw, accidentally wrenched away from the sprawling mouth, tried to painfully chomp down, gnawing into his shell and flesh, until he managed to untangle himself—before the bite was too deep to ever escape.
And the little turtle knew that he must find a new home, because he no longer recognised the home that had once belonged to him, and his Kind.
Dodging empty cans of tuna fish, the metal versions long outliving the tuna themselves, who had not been seen for at least two years, the little turtle finally made it to the shore.
He rummaged inside the wardrobe of his shell, for he knew that he could not live in his own form for a moment longer, and he dressed himself in a brand new body.
Capuchin
He arrived in the cemetery where the trees used to grow, their stubbed gravestones a sorrowful reminder of the mass destruction that had almost wiped them out, entirely. Only one tree remained, where a whole forest had once thrived, and one female capuchin who hugged onto its branches. For her, it was love at first sight: he was the most exquisite capuchin she had ever seen. It didn’t matter that he was really a turtle underneath his new fur, and she a bowhead whale. She flirted with some playful stalking, zigzagging after him amongst the piles of chopped, skinned corpses, yanking his fur, until he got the hint, and they became each other’s devoted home. So when the bulldozer inevitably arrived, they could almost cope with the loss of their tree, so long as they still had each other to cling to.
Drought
Yearning to feel the water on his skin, even if it was fresh and small, and not salted and endless, the little turtle turned himself into a frog. The bowhead whale decided to become a toad, for she saw beauty, where others saw ugliness. They spent six blissful months in their newfound sanctuary. They got on swimmingly with their newt neighbours, whom they were never tempted to swallow down as a midnight snack, even when the flies began to dwindle. They didn’t notice, at first, as the water level lowered like a slow draining bath, and once they did notice, they tried their hardest not to again. Until one day, when just a precious pearl of water remained, they knew they had no choice but to leave behind the deceased remains of the pond they had hoped would be their enduring place, and search, instead, for a new and living land.
Her Loss was the most Painful Loss
Of course, if the little turtle had known what would become, he would never have suggested that they turn into cows simply because the grass was so vast, and still semi-lush in the autumn and winter months. For one whole day, they contentedly chewed, and for one single night they slept side by side, and hoof by hoof. But as a new day rose, and he slumbered in its morning, greedy hands, and greedier mouths led her away, for she had always been too loving, too trusting, and as they drained her drier than the pond she wished had never died, the salty red reminded her of the salty blue sea she missed so dearly, and it comforted her in her final moments, the waves dancing across her face, as her eyes quietly closed.
Flight, Fall
In devastation, the little turtle turned himself into a swift, and flew to the top of the highest mountain, far away from everything that he thought could hurt him. But the warm ice began to melt beneath his delicate claws, and all that was left was an overcooked sky, all the moisture evaporated away, the taste of burnt ash baked into its air. And so the little turtle decided to turn back into himself, and purposely, he tumbled towards his demise. For he would rather face an untimely extinction, than turn into the skin of those who had almost stolen everything.
Rise
As the little turtle plummeted, he saw a sea of concerned hands. Millions of fingers, reaching up towards the sky. He only hoped that there would be enough.
To save the world in time.
Amy Akiko is an educator and journalism graduate from South London. She enjoys writing various forms of fiction including poetry, children's stories, flash, and short stories. She is an avid advocate for animal rights, and is currently working on her first novel, which explores the impact of loneliness, particularly on older people's lives.