Barnacle

Hours passed. Then, a vibration. A rhythmic thrumming began to shake the granite. The return.

The first wave hit like a cold, liquid slap. Barnaby waited for the second and third, ensuring the tide was truly back. Then, he cracked open his doors. Out came his "cirri"—delicate, feathery legs that looked like a tiny fan. He began to kick. Sweep. Retract. Sweep. Retract. barnacle

As the ship passed and the silt settled, the ocean grew quiet again. Barnaby went back to his kicking. He had no eyes to see the stars, but he felt the pull of the moon in the swell of the waves. He was small, immobile, and stuck to a rock for life, but as the cool Pacific current brought him his midnight snack, Barnaby decided there was no better way to see the world than to let it wash over you. Hours passed

Barnaby felt the massive pressure change. Most creatures fled, but Barnaby just tightened his grip. He was part of the rock now. The ship scraped the outer edge of the reef with a groan that vibrated through Barnaby’s very glue. A few of his cousins on the outer ledge were crushed, but Barnaby held fast. The return

He remembered the day he chose the rock. He’d used his sensitive antennae to "walk" across the stone, tasting the surface for just the right chemical signature. When he found it, he did what any sensible barnacle does: he glued his forehead to the rock with the strongest cement in nature and decided never to move again. "Morning, Barnaby," clicked a nearby crab, scuttling past.

But tonight was different. The water felt heavy, smelling of old wood and rusted iron. A shadow loomed, blocking out the moonlight. A massive hull of a cargo ship was drifting too close to the reef.

The tide was retreating, leaving behind a glistening, salt-crusted world. In the middle of it all, perched on a jagged piece of granite, was Barnaby.