Year: 1967.

Four white men in their 30’s sat in comfortable, orange lounge chairs in the seventh floor office of the Glacier-Pop Cola company in Manhattan. They all wore expensive business attire and had short haircuts weted back with hair oil. They were also each slowly working on a cigarette and a cocktail of their choice. Against one wall was one of their company’s new vending machines for distributing their popular Glacier-Pop Cola. Though all four of the men in attendance were paying close attention, most of the talking was done by two of the men who were arguing.

“What do you mean you don’t like the taste of cola in a plastic cup – have you even tried it?” Evan Downer nearly shouted. Mr. Downer was their company’s liaison to their advertising agency. Their ad-men; like everyone else in the country, were pushing plastic as the key to the future. Their latest proposal was to use it to replace the glass soda bottles their company currently sold their product in.

“My wife bought us a few of the new plastic cups,” Trent Young said calmly. “I tried both beer and soda each in them and hated it.” Mr. Young was the company’s marketing manager and outranked Mr. Downer. He admired Mr. Downer’s enthusiasm, and his lack of being intimidated by his superiors, but it didn’t change the fact that he was wrong on his current proposal.

“How many selling points does this need?” Mr. Downer stated; more calmly now, counting his fingers to demonstrate his points. “It’s going to reduce the cost of each unit – shatterproof bottles – we will be the first to switch to plastic – women will love it. You certainly agree that the women who mostly buy the soda for each household hate the cumbersome weight that comes with combining liquid and glass. They are going to switch to our brand if we are the first, but we are only going to get one shot at this.”

Michael Hooks stared down at his glass, eying the ice and the last inch of the White Russian he was drinking. “What makes you think customers want to drink their soda from plastic?” he stated.

“Men will drink whatever is put in front of them,” Mr. Downer quickly replied. “If it means they don’t have to go to the grocery store, they will drink it from a raw skunk’s bladder if they have to.”

Mr. Hooks glanced at Trent with a bewildered look on his face at this statement. Trent just grinned back at him.

“I think I know how you can convince me Evan,” Trent said. “If you can convince everyone in this room to start having their cocktails in plastic cups, I’ll reconsider the idea.”

Evan threw up his hands in frustration.

“I’m getting a soda,” Trent said. He then walked over to the soda machine.

Evan’s face filled with the realization of another point before he even spoke: “It’s not even all about what you drink your soda from,” he pleaded. “I happen to know that larger soda bottles are going to appear in supermarkets eventually. They will either be in one-gallon or two-liter bottles. It’s another reason for getting the weight down on the containers. When you get home, you just pour it into whatever you want.”

“I just happen to like glass,” Trent stated plainly. He opened up the door to the vending machine without putting in a quarter and took out a 12 ounce bottle of Glacier-Pop Soda. The bottle slipped out of his hand and landed on a wooden coffee table with an obnoxious slam, but it didn’t break.

Mr. Hooks flinched from the noise. Evan looked at him, and cast his thumb in the direction of the fumbling Mr. Young, who had unwittingly made another point for him. Trent seemed oblivious to the fact that he almost broke his bottle. He took off the cap with the remover built into the machine, then stood there looking at his beverage.

“I don’t think a plastic bottle is going to feel so pleasantly cold to the touch,” he said. He took a sip, and a white swirl suddenly erupted from his bottle. A tiny; glowing white, female form with wings formed out of thin air. She was only about half the size of the bottle. She flew around Mr. Young’s head a few times. The frost-faerie then gave Mr. Young a little kiss on the cheek before vanishing back into the bottle.

“Refreshment is best served in a glass,” Mr. Hooks droned plainly, while looking at his empty glass with a frown.

Year: 2015.

Darelin Pinkerton stood on Kamilo beach on the big island of Hawaii with his BBC camera crew. About ninety meters away, Jacob Adachi was leading his cleanup crew onto the beach to start their shift. For a moment Darelin worried that Jacob had forgotten of his agreement the day before to an interview at this time, but this was abated when Jacob turned away from his crew and began to walk calmly in their direction.

“OK, it looks like we are all set,” Darelin told his crew.

Darelin had made a name for himself the past several years covering human interest stories from the Caribbean region for the BBC. His British peers called him Barbados Dar for short. He’d anchored news segments from Barbados; Jamaica, Aruba, and even Cuba once. His English was almost identical to anyone from London, and he was often mistaken as being from there instead of Barbados. Of course he had spent almost eight years of his life in the UK, so it wasn’t so strange. Barbados was a beautiful place, but it was too small to spend a whole lifetime there. This first assignment in Hawaii was something totally new to him. A different region; with different people, and for once he wasn’t just a black man covering black stories for the BBC. Jacob Adachi for instance had a background that was Japanese, Hawaiian and English. Still, it was another warm tropical island, but there the similarity to his past stories about fun in the sun ended. The beach here looked like a garbage dump, filled as it was with refuse that washed here from the famous Great Pacific Garbage Patch. It was a serious subject matter, but Darelin intended to tackle the story with his same edgy humor he built a reputation on.

In about ten minutes, the interview and camera were rolling.

“What you see here is only the trash that accumulated during the weekend,” Mr. Adachi was saying. “It’s plastic mostly, with drink bottles making up much of it.”

“And as you were telling me yesterday, not everyone in the world recycles?” Dar asked.

“Most of it comes from Asia,” Mr. Adachi said. “When it‘s thrown into the ocean, currents cause debris to converge at the center of the North Pacific Gyre”

“The Great Pacific Garbage Patch,” Darelin said, looking at the camera sternly. “Unfortunately for us, it hovers near Hawaii like an imperial Japanese carrier fleet.”

Mr. Adachi chuckled, and added: “Many people feel things are improving when governments like China’s ban plastic bags, but there is still a developing world full of people who want luxury items. This means plastic, and a lot of it. Even if more people are recycling and reusing all around the world, the trend is still waste, and that trend is near unstoppable."

“You sound very grim about it,” Darelin said, giving Mr. Adachi a consoling pat on the shoulder, eying the camera. “Is there hope for any of us, or is humanity as good as gone in a hundred years?”

“I have a very grim workplace,” Mr. Adachi explained with a smile. “Looking at this regenerating mess daily would make anyone opinionated on the subject. I can tell you one thing, a plastic mess in the ocean is more dire than an oil spill. Everyone got excited over the Deepwater Horizon spill, but as bad as it was; in time, the sea is going to be able to clean up the oil. Plastic; as you may have heard, merely breaks down in the ocean…”

“Tell my viewers what you told me about the sand in the beach,” Darelin interrupted.

Mr. Adachi smiled and kneeled down in the sand, motioning for the camera to follow. Darelin knelt down with him, while telling the camera: “This guy has a doctorate in rubbish.”

“This sand,” Mr. Adachi lectured, “while looking normal to the untrained eye, is made up partially of tiny bits of plastic.” Mr. Adachi dug into the sand with his hands, and scooped up a handful for Darelin and the camera. “Looking close, you can see many of the grains come in too many colors to be normal.”

“It’s plastic!” Darelin told the camera, while dramatically gesturing the ground. “The beach here is becoming plastic!”

Mr. Adachi continued to dig into the sand and pulled out a small, shiny object. “Here’s a great thing,” he said, “sea glass.”

Darelin eyed Mr Adachi’s find. “It looks a little like a little angel.”

“An odd shape to be sure,” Mr Adachi agreed, “but it’s merely been shaped by the sea. The sharp pieces of glass are ground down by water and sand, and it becomes as benign as a stone – though prettier.”

“Glass is sand,” Darelin agreed simply.

“Exactly so,” Mr Adachi agreed, “and a much more sensible product than plastic could ever be.”

Six hours later, Mr. Adachi was leaving Kamilo beach with his cleanup crew. The BBC camera crew had long before packed up their equipment and left. He and each worker were carrying massive bags filled with garbage picked up on the shoreline. As they neared a pathway that branched off from the Jeep trail where their vehicles were parked, Mr. Adachi looked back doubtfully at the beach to see if their days work had improved its aesthetics at all.

To his surprise, the refuse they had left behind seemed to have been suddenly stacked in neat piles far from the breaking shore. He knew his crew had been simply picking refuse up and bagging it. It would certainly quicken the cleanup the next day, but Mr. Adachi wondered if this could be a joke, or caused by a large wave that had just now broke behind them, or…

Mr. Adachi pulled the piece of sea glass from his shirt pocket with his free hand and eyed it suspiciously.

Year: 2109

On the southern Gulf Coast of Florida near the Everglades was a tiny village. It was dominated by a massive dome shaped structure in the center. It was windowless, but had a hole in the top where wood smoke drifted out. It was constructed out of heavy, overlapping plates of plastic that had been melted down from collected rubbish and reshaped, and lashed together with collected plastic fibers. It was very sturdy, and offered protection for everyone who lived here. In truth, everyone in the village usually slept in this one great house. The small plastic outbuildings were mainly for storage; plastic smelters, toilets, or held the chickens being raised by the tribe. On the outskirts of the village and along the entire shore as far as the eye could see, garbage dominated the landscape. The people of the village piled up much of the plastic garbage near some of their smelters in preparation for use. The strand of garbage was actually somewhat diminished near the village, since they had used so much of it.

Inside the domed chamber dozens of rare, unblemished plastic bottles that were as clear as glass were shoved into holes in the ceiling that were about ten centimeters wide. About a third of each two-liter bottle rested outside in the sunlight, with the rest hanging in the chamber. The water that filled each bottle refracted light into the chamber, which on sunny days like that one, lit the chamber well even if no fire was burning.

Over a hundred people sat attentively around the fire listening to one of their best storytellers. If someone from 2015 were to see this particular group of people, they would all be described as racially mixed from two or more racial groups, with white and black being the most obvious. To the tribe of Domeron village however, they were merely one people – one race. They certainly knew of distant groups who were different than themselves; but to them, the features of the blended ethnicities were simply those that made one face different than another. They sat in a circle, which showed the equality each member possessed within their group. The children sat in front, so they didn’t have to look over the adults to see the teller. She appeared to be in her late thirties, but was still very beautiful with her hair in braids decorated by glass or pearl beads, but no plastic. She wore a simple white dress made of cotton. It was much nicer than the ragged clothes worn by other members of the tribe – some of whom were nigh naked.

“Imagine the most delicious orange or apple you have ever tasted,” Flor Garez was saying, gesturing as if she was bringing something delicious to her lips. “That perfect piece of fruit that you always hope to find again. This they could have every day, and even more.”

Some of the younger children made gestures of grabbing fruit from a tree and taking a bite.

“Things that are good to eat come in many forms, especially in those days when there was a limitless variety from all around the world,” Flor continued. “Bananas; vanilla, milk, mango, peanut butter, and chocolate…”

“Chocolate!” a half dozen children suddenly interrupted with a shout, before falling silent again just as quickly.

Flor laughed heartily. “I had some old chocolate when I was a child, but it didn’t do the stories justice. It was still protected by its unbroken plastic layer but it had spoiled anyway. It tasted terrible, and I broke out in hives.” Flor made a sweeping gesture around her face to show where she was afflicted. “My face looked swollen and terrible for a week.”

“It’s all gone now,” her own five year old niece Zina said with a pout.

Flor’s hand went dramatically to her chin. “Perhaps it is, but maybe some of it still grows in South America or Africa. That’s where chocolate comes from.”

“Far away?” Zina asked, in a hopeful voice.

“Yes,” Flor answered, “but be warned, it was a desire to eat all manner of things from far away that helped bring on this terrible deluge of plastic in the first place. We should count ourselves lucky that the seas have expelled most of it, and that the fish in our oceans are finally coming back – of course we have more gobblers than ever to deal with here on shore now.”

At the mention of the word “gobbler”, ten or more of the children began to growl and make ferocious gestures, some using their hands and arms to signify massive jaws clamping shut.

“We all know gobblers are dangerous,” Flor said, “but does anyone remember how they came to be?”

A boy near twelve years old named Gano stood up from the second row and exclaimed, “It was the scientists!”

“True,” Flor agreed, “but how do scientists create an animal Gano?”

“They used the genes,” the boy replied. “They created a beast that can eat the plastic, but they much prefer people when they can get them. It is part gator, and part goat.”

Flor chuckled lightly, “It also has the genes of many other animals, and some plants as well. It looks a lot like a gator that was once common in this area, but it is much more agile on land.”

Zina seemed to still be on the issue of the legendary chocolate: “Why couldn’t we just bring chocolate from Africa in jars?” she asked. “I only want to try a little.”

This time it was the adults who couldn’t remain silent for the teller, as they filled the room with laughter. Flor herself laughed most heartily of all, as she had to grab her knees to steady herself.

“Tha..that is a really good idea Zina,” she said laughingly.

Flor threw aside the curtain to check on the condition of the village chief in her private enclosure. At over ninety years of age, she grew up in a time when most people enjoyed their privacy when they slept. Chief Martha Johnson lay on her mats, with her head facing the wall as she usually did while asleep. In the great chamber behind her, Flor could hear most of those who had gathered for the telling wander outside to do chores or just to stretch their legs. Flor reached to stir her awake, but Martha turned to face her before she did.

“Still going through with that plan of yours,” Chief Martha croaked hoarsely. The Chief was a light skinned woman with blue eyes and had at one time been blonde, but age had made her hair white as snow.

Flor started slightly at her sudden activity, but quickly relaxed. “Of course I am – nothing has changed.”

“I never should have told you about him,” Martha said. “You can’t change the past by asking the Frost Spirit to bring him to the present so he can be punished in some way. It doesn’t matter how responsible he may have been”

Flor looked down at her chief suspiciously. “You told the world about him, not just me,” she corrected. “That article you wrote on the internet sixty odd years ago won you that prize. You told me you researched it for two years.”

“A Pulitzer,” Martha replied, “and it was highly sensationalized. The world was badly poisoned then... and still is. I gave people a villain, but no one man is responsible.”

“Still, some justice is better than none,” Flor argued. “The Frost Spirit has even shown me the face of this villain. I think she wants to bring him to our time, but she needs the consent of someone here.”

At that moment a loud roar could be heard outside. It couldn’t have been more than a few hundred meters from the village. Flor and Martha both stopped their conversation and listened to hear if there were any calls of distress. Luckily, there were none, but people could be heard quickly shuffling back into the safety of the fortified dome. In a few minutes the heavy plastic doors could be heard shutting. A gobbler was stalking the village again.

Flor jerked her head back to her chief. “I think now is the time. I am going to give my consent.” She walked over to an old, wooden coffee table at the feet of Martha’s mats, and picked up a small; decorative, wooden box. It was no bigger than her hand.

“You’ll be chief soon Flor,” Martha said, squirming to find a comfortable position on her mats. “I’m well past arguing the point. You will do… what you must.” Her last three words seemed to trail off and were barely audible.

As Flor opened the box to reveal a felt lined interior, she glanced quickly at Martha. She had already closed her eyes, and may have already fallen asleep. Inside the box was a piece of sea glass in the vague form of a tiny, winged female. She took the little image into one hand and held it up to the lights in the enclosure.

“Frost Spirit, will you wake up? I am ready to do what you ask of me,” she said, being as quiet as possible.

Nothing happened.

“Frost Spirit! will you not speak to your humble friend?” Flor asked, in a slightly louder voice.

Martha reawakened for just a moment, opening a single eye halfway. She could barely make out a wisp of white, swirling smoke-like color coming from the little piece of sea glass.

Evan Downer was falling. The last thing he knew was that he had fallen asleep in his office on the couch. He suspected he would only fall a foot before hitting the carpet by his coffee table. Instead he fell several feet and landed into a pile of garbage. He was outside and the sun was shining bright. It was even warm – very odd since it was early March in Manhattan.

“What the hell! Trent, what are you up to!”

Garbage was everywhere. Much of it was plastic containers that had helped to break his fall.  Luckier still, he had avoided much of the sharper refuse, and he still had his shoes on. Taking a good look around, he noticed that he was on a shoreline, and that the pile of garbage stretched as far as the eye could see. The strange grasses on the dunes and the nearby thickets growing from proper soil reminded him of Key Largo in Florida. He visited the place with his wife for their first anniversary. In the distance, he could just make out several handsome palm trees.

“I’m in the tropics?” Evan asked himself.

He was interrupted by the movement of something about sixty yards away that came out from behind several scrawny trees onto the beach, pushing bouncing plastic bottles along with it. It wasn’t a gator; though it resembled one, as it moved much too quickly in Evan’s direction while letting out a terrible roar. Evan thought it looked like a new kind dinosaur he had never heard of.

Evan let out a loud laugh while moving away from the creature. He was obviously having one hell of a dream. He hadn’t had a good, vivid one like this in a long time. He picked up his pace and was soon putting more distance between himself and the pursuing monster. The dream wasn’t even restricting his speed. Plastic bottles and other pieces of refuse bounced away from his sprinting feet. He easily danced around sharp objects or anything that his feet couldn’t easily knock aside.

“Ha ha!” Evan was having a good time. Even the tropical heat that was tiring him out a little faster than normal seemed an excellent detail in his dream.

After about ten minutes of running, Evan came to the tip of a tiny peninsula on the shore where the three palms he had spotted earlier grew. He stopped to rest, placing a hand on one of the palm trunks. Far behind him the monster was still coming, but it wouldn’t catch up for a long time. In the new field of vision before him, he could make out a massive dome-like structure with a base nearly as big as an office building. It rested just off the beach.

“Well, I’ve found shelter,” Evan stated happily to himself.

                                             The End.