After the storm, birds sang from atop the boat’s mast. Bronze bells clanged and jingled from the rigging while a constellation of aquamarine shards splashed against the hull. Below decks, they rested, shivering, cocooned inside dreams of an island. They would find beaches shaped like crescent moons, where ivory sands might warm them. Although the boat’s compass spun broken, the vessel continued south, buoyed by water words, wind words, bird words. A salt-mist place beckoned—where his dream crossed hers, like an indigo X marks the spot on treasure maps. They slept, exhausted and oblivious to weather warnings.
They woke to the scrape of hull on rock, skeletons of shipwrecks to starboard.
How did we not hear the buoy, she wondered.
It sounded like sea lions in my dream, he said. Let’s tie up.
Do you think anyone lives here?
Doubtful. Smells like a seabird rookery.
I don’t want to stay here.
We don’t have a choice.
Maybe there’s a radio in the lighthouse.
Clouds eclipsed the moon. Lantern beams pulsed and illuminated bits of hail or fallout from another, distant disaster. It felt like they were trapped in a snow globe. Engine flooded, electronics sparking, hearts pounding.
The castaways argued all afternoon, doing shots of tequila that did not kill their thirst. While he napped, she wrenched open the mahogany chest—imagining jewels, cupcakes, a satellite phone. Ghosts of past and future mistakes swam forth with a briny death-stench. He woke. Thousands of golden, plastic caps (from the world’s most popular soda) popped free. A plastic pirate skull was carved like scrimshaw: a map. He placed five glow-in-the-dark-neon bracelets on her wrists. I’d give anything for a full bottle of soda, he said. They danced barefoot in a thunder-lightning disco, drunk on raindrops. Tide ebbed, demons whistled.
While he struggled to fix their stalled vessel, she wandered to the far side of the island. Serenaded by screaming seabirds, she climbed into a shipwrecked crow’s nest. The horizon resembled a tequila sunrise, but bitter—stained with blood instead of pomegranate juice. Red sky at morning, sailors take warning. Time stopped, then spun backwards: evolutionary chaos. Baleen whales migrated aloft between storm clouds. Whalesong beckoned lost humans to leap, to join their magical mystery journey. Massive creatures splashed offshore, ecstatic, returned from latitudes of extinction. She imagined building a life raft of amber clouds, navigating solo, guided by constellations.
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When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes…go surfing… #FollowYourBliss
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We buried the treasure under a red-blossomed cactus.
[sketched map is torn, blood-stained]
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C A U T I O N
Radioactive Contents
[translated from the Japanese]
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Give the children my l o v e
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[empty bottle – only sand and beach glass]
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…this might be a winner… [scribbled on the reverse of a lottery ticket]
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My cousin works at Taqueria del Mar in Denver.
Please tell him we are detained on an island with no name.
[translated from the Spanish]
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Life: a dream on fallen stars
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He strolled through an abandoned honeymoon island resort dreaming of icy beer and nicotine. A plume of gray smoke scribbled blue sky. Sunburn singed his fingers. Cigarettes: only a fantasy. Dozens of palm trees—hurricane survivors—danced with gentle zephyr winds. Palms offered zero shade. He scavenged coconuts, found none. He sketched in the sand, brainstorming designs to hack their stranded boat. He imagined building a shelter from rocks and shells—a castle (or labyrinth) for his lady. She’d gone off treasure hunting, threading together clues from messages in bottles, plastic wrappers. There is no refuge in love, he thought.
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Survivors of Hurricane Epic announce a display of new art to be hosted at the Waterfront Gallery, open daily (dawn to dusk) during June. The all-ages opening night features seafood-themed appetizers, coconut concoctions, and unlimited tastings of pure, fresh water. Mixed-media works include sculpture from salvaged wrecks and cloth woven from palm bark. Paintings feature 100% maritime-sourced pigments. Visitors are invited to create their own costumes sourced entirely from ocean plastics. This exhibition receives support from: Hurricane Epic Recovery Foundation; Save Our Seabirds; and from an anonymous couple whose yacht survived but whose relationship status remains complicated.
Derek DiOrio, born in Rhode Island, is an illustrator, designer, and fine artist based on the Mendocino Coast of California. DiOrio’s illustrations have appeared in many newspapers and magazines, and his fine art has been included in numerous exhibitions and creative projects.
Karen K. Lewis is a writer living in rural northern California where she leads workshops with California Poets in the Schools. She’s the recipient of multiple California Arts Council Artists in Schools grants and holds an MFA from Antioch-Los Angeles. Some of her essays, poems, and fiction appear in Literary Mama, Lost Horse, Minerva Rising, Hip Mama, and in various anthologies and youth magazines.