Treasure of Trash Island

Denise, a seven-year-old, adjusted his oversized goggles perched precariously on

his square nose. "Trash Island!" He gripped the makeshift raft,

a collection of salvaged plastic bottles lashed together with seaweed, his heart

thumping a cheerful rhythm against his blocky chest. The island was a bizarre and

beautiful landscape. Mountains of rusty cans shimmered in the sun. Valleys were carpeted

in tangled fishing nets, dyed vibrant colors by the salt and the sun.

The air, surprisingly, smelled not of rot, but of

brine and something faintly metallic. Denise, ever the curious explorer,