034

On the surface, little had changed. Perhaps it was a little more subdued than usual, yet storms still raged and calmed over the waters. The sun continued its cycle of death and rebirth, melting into the horizon each night and emerging again each morning. The tides persisted in their neverending dance with the moon. The grains of sand on the shore remained innumerable. But in the depths below, where kelp forests took root and anglers waited in the dark with their swinging lanterns, the Ocean had become silent.

The whalesong had disappeared.

031 it snowed all night

Morning broke. She opened the door to find footsteps leading away, fresh in the newly fallen snow. Once again, she briefly wondered why the footprints only went in one direction.

She picked up the frozen rose at her doorstep and went back inside. It was cold.

022 no man is an island

No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. -- John Donne, Meditation XVII


Dear friend,

It's been years now, hasn't it? It's hard to keep track, but the Boulder is covered in tallies - one for each day, until there was no more room. Looking back, I don't know how I've managed to survive this long.

I mean, I hate coconuts. It's irrational, I know, but I hate them. I abhor the thickness of each shell. The milk disgusts me and the meat is no better. I despise their very shape.

I hate the sand. Each grain is another second in this hourglass of a prison, another second that I've lost, another second that I will inevitably waste, stranded on this wretched island.

I hate the sun. He is a pedantic old fool, watching me at all moments with a disapproving glare. He spends the day burning me into a mess of peeling red skin and exposed nerves. When I am finally acclimatized to the heat, he flees into the west so that I may freeze through the night.

I spend most of my time scanning the beaches. I wander the entire perimeter, lap after lap. My heart races with every glint and glimmer, though almost always it is a mere shard of glass, a small pool of water or a trick of the light.

But today - today I found it. This little green bottle, this single happiness in my life. He is like a messenger of the gods - like Hermes! If only he were as swift.

How many years has it been? How long have we been writing to each other? How many letters have we exchanged, trusting our hopes and our dreams to this little green bottle and the tides that carry him?

I think that you are all that gets me through the day. Without you, I would have no reason to get up in the morning. I would swim away from this place, as far as I could go, and when my arms failed me I would drown in my own indifference. Or at the very least, I would finally get around to writing that giant SOS along the shore (dragging heavy rocks is a drag).

My biggest fear is neither thirst nor hunger, nor rabid cassowary attacks - scary as they are. No, my biggest fear is that the ocean currents change and little Hermes is lost forever.

So even if I never see you, thank-you. Thank-you for the stories you have given me. Thank-you for telling me about the flowers you discover and the sand castles you build. Thank-you for keeping my sanity intact. It is comforting when you say that your island is just as humdrum as mine, though your way with words makes it sound so much more exciting. Despite everything else - despite the coconuts, the sand, the sun, the cassowaries - you make me thankful for being stranded. So thank-you.

I hope you get this message soon, and in good health. Write back soon.

Yours,

E.

018 the man who would not sleep

Two old men sat back-to-back on plain wooden chairs. They were in the middle of an otherwise empty white room, dimly lit by a bare bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling. The first man faced a window to the east, waiting for the break of dawn. If anyone had been watching, however, their eyes would have been drawn immediately to the other, who sat facing the western window.

"Come," he said.

He was dressed in a cloak like a sleepy rain cloud - lavender-grey and lined with silver. He was a man of contrasts - his rheumy eyes were at once merry and melancholy, his ashen hair both thin and rich, his stately presence delicate yet enduring, his very being fresh yet ancient beyond understanding. He was Evanescence. He was Eternity.

With palpable patience he contemplated the western horizon; the sun had long since turned in for the night. In his right hand he held a small pile of sand.

The first man was just as still, but nowhere near as peaceful. He was like a statue, motionless, but his appearance of quietude was betrayed by the intensity of his gaze. His worn clothing and weary manner said all that there was to say of his life.

He was Fatigue. And he was Regret.

Slowly but surely, his head dipped and his eyes closed. Suddenly, his head jerked back to its original position and his eyes snapped open again.

"I won't go," he said. "I can't."

The other was quiet for a moment. "And why not?" he asked wistfully. "What light through yonder window breaks? I can tell you that the west is dark. You can see that the east is no brighter. Come, old friend."

"I can't," he repeated.

"I've given you many good dreams over the years, haven't I? So again I ask - why not?"

"No time," came the heavy reply. "There's just not enough time. There is still so much left to do. So much I haven't done..." he trailed into silence.

"Go then, dear friend. Go and do what you must."

But neither man moved.

"You will not go and neither will you come," the ancient man sighed, "but you cannot stay here. Not for much longer."

"And if I sleep, then where do the minutes and hours go? I've lost days and months." He paused. "You are a thief. And you've stolen years of my life."

"Will you come?"

He smiled a bitter smile. "No. How much more time must you take from me?"

"Time," the cloaked figure repeated, a sad smile on his face. He looked down at the sand resting in his palm. A few grains slipped through his fingers, winking out of existence in a small burst of light before reaching the dusty floorboards. "Time is ephemeral."

He stood and, with his left hand, removed an ornate hourglass from a hidden pocket in his cloak. He transferred the remaining grains to the instrument with a well-practiced fluorish. "Goodbye, my friend," he said as he placed the timer on the seat he had just vacated.

The stubborn old man said nothing, but continued to watch the eastern horizon. Soon after, he was alone. The only sound was the whisper of sand as grains trickled through the glass.

When the sun finally broke over the eastern horizon, the shadows in the room stretched into being. A word echoed in the room, though no voice had spoken aloud.

"Come."

The old man bowed his head. As the last grain of sand fell from the upper bulb to the lower, a skeletal hand touched his shoulder.

He went.