An Excerpt From The Island

It is a warm summer's day down on the Beach, and Geoff Williams basks luxuriantly in the Sun, the sand below him cool with yearning. It is his first day off in ages, and he fits in like a glove. Station management has given its employees the officially unofficial assignment of promoting its newest technology upgrades while gauging the activities of beachgoers in preparation of entertainment ones. Of course, there is no real fruit needing bearing here. The day is like any other on the Island, at least in the on-season, and it is really more of an excuse to clear the building than anything else. The station has recently gotten more funding in an effort to further sheen the Island's resortesque image, and although some of the funds are being allotted to interior remodeling, the equipment is the real critical investment. Despite skyward aspirations, the station didn't collect as many visitors as it used to after all. They were a dying breed in this day and age, and it was fortunate enough for him that he managed to get a position there in the first place.

But that was neither here nor there. At least, for today. He would use his opportunity to full advantage in pushing work, least of all the radio station, completely from his mind. After all, he was at the Beach, and it was in full swing; positively buzzing with activity. Circles of itdotted the farthest reaches of his vision like an erratic dispersal of lopsided honeycombs. He supposed the only thing that could make this day more melodramatic would be a cavalcade of fireworks blazing and exploding onto the blue canvas (or was it billboard?) up above. Shielding his eyes to study the horizon line, it occurred to him that perhaps today there would be something to witness after all; that the stage was being set for one final VIP to arrive. Perhaps welcomed delirium was that guest.

Looking mindlessly for sometime, feeling unattached to doing so or otherwise (he had no strict intentions for the day after all), he naturally let his body drift back down to rest, allowing his eyes to softly follow suit to the heavens above as he shut out the immaterial world, letting only his ears and surrogate senses transmit a vision of all that ebbed and flowed around him. Eventually, he eased into what felt like a long-awaited hibernation.

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He awoke some time later, gradually beckoned back to reality by the calming churn of the surf. He remained still, eyes closed, for some time longer, trying to squeeze the most out of the illusion of eternal peace that seemed so close to his grasp. He knew it wouldn't last, but that didn't matter. Not right now. Not today. Today he was little more than a passing ship on the horizon, caught between two slabs of interminable blue. Today his hands, and his hands alone, were at the wheel, and he could steer any which way for freedom, or let the winds do the work for him. Today was not a day, but a saga. An age. An eon. An eternity. An adventure uninhibited by the anchoring of tomorrow. Every moment of today was ripe for exposition; every route unperturbed by the impending future.

He listened on, pulling every facet of sound and presence he could perceive from the waves, marveling at their perfection: of how they could be moved by a singular cause, yet be so independent in their intentions, yet still bear influence to one another so critically in their journeys to any eventual shore.

In a way, he could see himself in them; all his fellow beachgoers, too. All of theirlives had been building up to this very place, regardless of planning or final destination, as they each had a chance to spy their alien reflections in the glinting brine; their unwitting doppelgangers from n unsinkable future; the hands of fate clasped in the grip of a familiar stranger.

He laughs to himself a little as he imagines all the possibilities that lie just beyond his grasp. Eyes still closed, he wonders: will we ever get a day off after all?