by Alex Pavljuk

The rum went dry and the fire, which once roared rapidly amongst the backdrop of the ever expanding atlantic sky, finally turned to ash.

Desmond Cutler, the now former sailor removed from his vessel and crew by a mere matter of hours, laid amongst the sand of this ocean bound mirage. His limbs were sprawled out and moving slow and melodic like snow angels in the course white sand.

His drunkenness was finally stirring and soon he would have to exit single-minded onto this deathly isle of lost souls and darkened delights.

Would he sail away on the palms of the lone tree? Throw a bottled message into the expansive sea and pray? Or, more logical than not, just walk head on into the ocean and escape it all.

Yet for now, he wouldn’t waste these dying moments of a booze filled fog on the plights of some ship-wrecked pirate.

Yet, the sun, which hung swollen yet dull with an orange and purple hew with stars finally peeking through, somehow found itself directly in the twitching eye of Desmond. He winced and sat up rapidly, his hand now covering the beam of light which, to his shock and awe, was not from the sky but a passing ship on the horizon.

Desmond stood up, shaky and staggering; he jumped and waved at the reflection of a freshly polished cannon or poop deck hitting him in the face with biblically jarring accuracy.

He screamed and laughed wildly, hoping, haggling and hollering at this distant vessel of promise and prize, and to his surprise, the ship turned toward him with nowhere to hide.

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