He left in the cover of darkness. He lifted the palm leaves that concealed the boat he learned to build from an outlawed book. He prayed it would be seaworthy. A branch cracked in the near distance. He watched. He waited. Sweat dripped down his back. With his hat, a small pack of food, and water placed gently in the boat, he eased it into the sea. If he were caught now, he’d get at least 5 years in the pit. 

Please float, he whispered into the night as he pushed off from the sandy safety of the beach. He sat. He watched. He waited. 

His oar sloshed water, his eyes glanced back at the shrinking island village of his youth. He remembered the day his parents left, the way he was now, when he was a boy. He wondered if he’d see them again.  They had faces just like his. 

His heart beat fast. For the first time in his life, his feet were off dry land. Dread flooded his senses once as his boat tipped sideways, but he shifted his weight and righted himself. His eyes were focused on the horizon ahead.

The sun was high in the sky when he saw it, the fabled Shadow Village. It towered above the water in dark stacks. As children, they were told it was an island made entirely of garbage and haunted by the ghosts of the living Earth. It was an abomination caused by centuries of pollution. As he grew older, he heard whisperings from island elders. They spoke of a hidden treasure on the island, buried in the trash by the oil barons of the past. Nobody who went in search of it had ever returned. High levels of pollution created strict laws against touching the water and made it a punishable offense to leave the island. 

He pushed on, his arms burning with each stroke of the oar.

As he neared the Shadow Village, he heard a small splash in the water behind him. He whipped around, expecting a patrol boat from his island, but there was nothing. Just a piece of driftwood floating. There were no fish in these waters. A bird? He wondered.

The Shadow Village crept nearer. The air was stained with the scent of decay and it became stronger as he neared it. The sun heated the sky. He wiped sweat from his brow and put on the straw hat he’d brought with him. He looked at the packet of food: some cooked rice and fresh coconut, but the pungent smell of the air left a sour feeling in his stomach.

Black stacks of debris separated by narrow channels provided entry to the island. He chose one and began paddling toward it. Inside, shadows played along the walls casting everything in shades of gray and brown. He swatted at flies, buzzing around his head and neck. 

A sound cut through the air, faintly at first. Whup-whup-whup.

As he moved deeper into the stacks, the sound grew louder. It was constant. His eyes widened with alarm. 

Ghosts.

In a moment he wanted nothing more than to turn back, to go home to his safe island. 

Whup-whup-whup.

His eyes darted to the spaces between crushed metal and bits of plastic. Rust dripping with oil, black and iridescent, seemed to be everywhere. His boat now squelched through water that blackened by the minute.

Whup-whup-whup.

Ahead, a fraction of green in the dim, reflecting in oil. He squinted his eyes.

Whup-whup-whup.

The ghost-noise grew loud enough it seemed to be around the next corner, forcing itself between the black stacks of filth. He pressed forward, brilliant green now refracting from the oil-coated stacks around him.

Whup-whup-whup.

Around the corner, an island hidden in the stacks. It was impossibly green and alive. A shining metal structure stood in the center, as tall as the sky with arms stirring the clouds, whup-whup-whup. The base of the structure was surrounded with tiny shacks, windows lit as if by a thousand candles. 

His boat nudged the edge of the island and he timidly stepped off. The grass was thick and luscious and wet. The stench in the stacks was imperceptible, replaced by a fresh green smell. He gasped as dozens of faces like moons first appeared in the windows and then emerged from the shacks into the sunlight. He swallowed hard at a lump in his throat as an elderly man and woman walked toward him, their arms outstretched. He felt tears stinging his eyes. They had faces just like his.

Featured photo by Dmytro Barylo on Unsplash

LOG: 

June 5, 2017, around noon – It’s been 42 days since our plane went down. Today I saw smoke coming from the northeast side of the island. I thought I was the only survivor. There isn’t much food left, and only a little rainwater remaining. The skies are clear today, so I need to make it last. 

I may venture out later to see where the smoke is coming from. If it’s another survivor, we can pool our resources and come up with a plan. 

June 5, 2017, nighttime – I walked northeast. After an hour I stumbled upon what appeared to be a recently abandoned campsite. The embers were still smoking. I didn’t see anybody but got the feeling I was being watched. This was made creepier when I discovered a rabbit corpse. I didn’t know there were rabbits on the island. I should make some traps. 

Clouds are gathering. I’m hoping for rain.

June 6, 2017, morning – I awoke to find my “HELP” message on the beach in disarray. The rocks were thrown everywhere. I’m scared. I don’t think an animal could (or would) have done this. The person (or people?) to the northeast might not be friendly. At least it rained last night. Thank God. Three drinking pitchers are full but the food reserves are almost gone. I sure am hungry. Better start looking for rabbits.

June 8, 2017, morning – The rest of my food was stolen while I slept. It’s gotta be whoever was at that campsite to the northeast. I saw smoke again last night. I’m going to walk over there again and see what I can find out, or steal my stuff back if nobody is there.

June 8, 2017, mid-afternoon – I don’t know what the fuck I just saw. I was hiding in the trees when I saw him. He was human but… different. His skin was bloated and purple and the stench, my God. I’m glad he didn’t see me. He stumbled around like he was drunk, bumping into things. I didn’t see any of my stuff, not that I’d want it back after that thing touched it.

June 9, 2017, nighttime – He bit me. He fucking bit my arm. He stumbled into my area and I tried to hide but he found me. He could sniff me out like a bloodhound. His head snapped toward me and he ran. I’ve never seen anything move so fast. The bleeding has finally stopped. I washed the wound as best I could in the ocean water. I can still move my fingers, so that must be a good sign. I pray to God I don’t get an infection. I don’t have much for medical supplies.

June 10, 2017,  morning – I couldn’t sleep at all last night. I kept hearing something move in the trees by my camp. Was it him? An animal? I want to think the latter, but there was this awful chewing. I’m so hungry. My arm feels fine today. There is no pain at all. I think I got lucky.

June 12, 2017, afternoon – I can barely move. My head feels like someone is drilling into it and my joints feel stiff. I worry that the bite on my arm is infected. It’s swollen and there is a reddish-purple ring around it, but it is oddly dry. No blood or pus or anything and there’s still no pain. I guess that’s a good sign. I keep seeing the purple man off in the distance through the trees. I think he’s keeping an eye on me, watching me with his yellow eyes. I’m so fucking hungry. I saw a rabbit at the water’s edge but he ran off when I approached. My head is killing me.

June 12, 2017, nighttime – No sign of the purple man. I caught a rabbit. For the love of God what is wrong with me? I caught it with my bare hands and broke his neck. I bit into its still-warm stomach and ate its intestines. I did it without a thought, without shame, without mercy. I’m not hungry anymore. Yummy.

June 13, 2017, nighttime – My legs feel funny. I can’t remember how I got here. I stood and stared at the water today and I have a feeling hours went by, but at the time it felt like a few seconds. I looked up afterward and the sun had moved clear across the sky. I’m having a hard time walking. No purple man. No food. No water. Tired.

June 14, 2017, morning – I sleeped. I feal bettar now. Why my skin pupple? My head feal ouch. Nead talk 2 pupple man. Ansers. 

JOON 18? – WHER IS PUPPLE MAN.

I GO.

BYEBYE!

Feature photo by Nenad Radojčić on Unsplash

The only thing that glittered more than the road were the tears on Laura’s cheeks, sparkling ethereal in the moonlight on a midnight drive to nowhere. She blinked hard. The visibility out here was shit and the cut above her left eye was bleeding again. Her headlights cut through the gloom the way a flashlight cuts through murky water, which was to say, not well at all. Her engine roared. The windshield wipers on their fastest setting couldn’t clear her view. She willed herself to slow down, but couldn’t. He’d catch up to her. She glanced away from the road for a moment to check her rear-view mirror. No headlights. She eased off the gas, but only slightly. She didn’t escape her husband only to die on this road. 

Laura felt tears sting her neck and reached up, hissing as she touched the friction burn. If she hadn’t been able to get her fingers between her skin and the rope he’d wrapped so tightly, he would have taken her life. She packed the night before and Terry happened to glance in the back seat of her car. How could she have been so stupid? If she’d only filled the trunk she would have been half way across the province before he noticed she was gone. She squinted away tears, peering out on the rain soaked highway. She reached toward the passenger side for the pack of tissues she kept in the glove box. Wet rocks peppered the wheel well as she drifted onto the shoulder, then jerked the wheel back toward the road.  

She wondered if he still lay on the kitchen floor where she left him when scrambling out the door. It was luck, really. He hit his head, hard, on their marble countertop when he slipped on her blood reaching for the knife block. 

With one hand in a white-knuckled grip on the wheel and the other dabbing tears from her swollen neck, Laura sped on. She looked into the rearview mirror. Two black beady eyes stared at her, attached to a slumped yellow body on top of a duffel bag in the back seat. It was Fred. Fred, the stuffed yellow dog with brown ears that she’d had since she was 8 months old. He’d gone everywhere with her. She’d squeezed him every time her father came home like a whiskey powered hurricane to throw her mother around the kitchen. And those nights when he’d come into her room late at night and—oh God, she’d sworn she wouldn’t make the same mistakes as her mother! 

She sobbed and closed her eyes, accelerating into rain, and a telephone pole. Moments later, headlights appeared behind her.

Featured photo by Noah Silliman on Unsplash

“Why did she even invite us?” James asked after rapping on the heavy wooden door.

“She’s our neighbour.” Patty replied. “After everything that’s happened — shh she’s coming.” 

They stood smiling on the step as Frankie opened the door. She was grinning from ear to ear, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. 

“Thank you so much for coming!” She beckoned them inside. “So nice to have good neighbours here for Zachary’s big day. Presents go on the table there in the kitchen. And please, help yourself to refreshments. We’ll be cutting the cake soon.” She closed the door behind them, then looked at them through her tired eyes, hands clasped in front of her. Knuckles white. “Where’s—”

“—We really wanted to bring Joel. We did. It’s just he picked up this virus at daycare and we’d hate for him to spread it around.” Patty hoped her smile looked sincere.

“It’s a shame. It would have been nice to have some other children at Zachary’s party, but it seems they’ve all come down with the sniffles.” Frankie’s voice was far away.

“Bad timing.” James shrugged.

“Yes.” Frankie pondered. “But let’s not let a thing like that spoil a good party. Zachary will only turn two once so let’s show him a good time.”

With that, Frankie flitted away to the kitchen where it seemed everyone else had gathered. A steady drone, the low murmur of forced small talk, was coming from that direction. James and Patty made their way there.

A sickly sweet smell of flowers choked the air in the room. Trays of assorted meats, cheese, and fruit covered half the table. Another table for gifts stood at the back of the room. Patty added their brightly wrapped gift to the bunch of blue-bowed birthday presents already there. Helium filled balloons sprouted up through the boxes and bags like weeds on a hill . Birthday Boy, one proclaimed.

James and Patty recognized a few parents whose children went to the same daycare as Joel. A solemn nod between them was all that seemed appropriate. 

Frankie took her place at the head of the table and began clinking a spoon on the side of her wine glass to get the attention of the party-goers.

“I want to thank everyone for coming,” she swayed on her feet, nearly dropping her glass, “to Zachary’s second birthday! The birthday boy is asleep in the other room.” She tilted and drained what remained of the red wine she’d poured herself, then began filling the glass again from a nearby bottle. “I’m going to go and get him, so we can sing happy birthday and open presents.”

She turned to leave the room when another of the attendees stopped her.

“Maybe we should just let Zachary rest.” The man said. Neither James nor Patty recognized him.

“Nonsense! He can’t miss his own party!” She looked at the crowd with a disturbingly wide smile plastered to her face. She stumbled and almost fell into the hallway toward her son’s room.

“Jesus Christ.” A woman to their left said. “We shouldn’t have come. This is insane.” 

Uneasy glances were exchanged around the room.

“They let her bring him home?” A man asked.

“Alright everyone, start singing Happy Birthday!” Frankie burst into the room holding Zachary in her arms. 

The crowd started to sing. God, it sounded awful. Frankie placed the boy in the high chair, gently bending his arms and legs, then rolling a blanket to prop his head up. A man in the crowd fainted, followed by a woman vomiting onto her own shoes. Several guests started crying.

“Isn’t my baby boy handsome?” Frankie exclaimed. “Happy birthday sweet boy!”

“They really didn’t do a bad job with him.” James whispered to his wife. “He almost looks alive.”

Featured photo by Adi Goldstein at Unsplash

My mom told me he’d kill me if I didn’t leave him. That was 3 years ago and the last time we spoke. She doesn’t understand. He loves me. 

I press my fingertips against the black plastic to feel the cold glass of the window. I watch the street below through a small slit. Freezing, my feet are tucked up in the moth-eaten blankets of a familiar room. My room. I listen for the lock on the door or footsteps in the hall. He doesn’t like it when I watch. 

The woman in a white nightgown standing on the street looks a lot like me. I see the swollen belly and wonder when she is due. I smile. I touch the tender spot where our baby used to grow and wince at the deep sorrow. An empty womb. He blames me and I blame myself. I should have fallen differently or turned away as he struck. I can still see the stain on the carpet.

I remember standing where the woman in white stands now. I remember wanting to step in front of the cars.

A fly lands on my arm and I shake it away. There are so many flies in this room. I hear a shuffle in the hallway and tense. I’ve been careful. I’ve been so quiet. I’ve been good. I listen for the lock, but the hallway is silent again. 

There’s a girl on my bed. She looks just like me.

She’s pale and grey. A length of telephone cord hangs from her neck, splotched red and purple. A necklace of bruises. Her cloudy open eyes look through me.  Her white nightgown twists around her. Her arms outstretched toward me. My cold feet on the carpet move toward her, nightgown swishing. I reach for her hand. Her wedding ring matches mine. I look at her brown hair and touch my own. Is she me?

Am I…?

Photo by Eduardo Vázquez of Unsplash