Welcome to Tiny Worlds!
We’re shifting our focus to explore Mexico's eastern coast with twelve-year-old George Perez in the serialized novel: ISLA.
For longer fiction visit Stories, and for flash fiction go to Sketchbook.
“Bienvenidos!” exclaimed the cheerful sign as they exited the airport.
George’s apprehensive look for the entire flight, managed to stretch just a bit further as they stepped to the curb.
Overdressed in the tropical climate, Kathryn pulled off her toque, tucking it into a pocket. Her winter jacket, now a cumbersome weight, slumped lifeless over her purse. George’s coat and scarf were tied around his waist, nearly dragging to the ground. His skin was a battleground for the duel between humidity and the dust stirred by passing cars. As he stepped forward, the harsh light seared across his forehead, a reminder that here, the sun plays by different rules. His nose twitched at the scents of this new world, and his ears, though disoriented, wanted to decipher the sounds.
Then, the symphony began in earnest. Not just any symphony, but a cacophony native to the surroundings: construction trucks rumbled as the rhythm, car radios the melody–each blasting different music at full volume. George’s ears can’t decipher what he’s hearing. “Is that an accordion?” he wonders, half to Kathryn, half to the breeze.
Kathryn’s eyes followed the sound. "Okay George,” she said with a smirk, “it's your polka…what now?”
He blinks, thinking. “We need…” snapping his fingers,“a place to stay!”
With a clumsy flourish George pulled a stack of pamphlets from his pocket, pilfered treasures from a rack inside the airport. He turns his back to Kathryn and lays them down on the sidewalk, unfolding the patchwork of paper. Luckily, they speak to him mostly in pictures: aquamarine water foaming at a shoreline, frothy glasses of mystery, ornate buildings of carved stone covered in vines and, thankfully, a rudimentary map tying most of the images together. From his backpack he slips his own map among them, a jumbled, haphazard hand of oversized playing cards.
It’s on the airport maps that he recognizes a few words. “Gracias, Mrs. Romey,” he whispers.
His fingers move along the pictured shorelines–checking between the images and his own. There aren’t any smaller islands noted but he’s following the shape of the shore. One by one, the maps without the right details get stuffed into his backpack until he’s left with only one other.
George stops for a moment, looking between his map and this last from the stack. It’s absurd that he’s here, isn’t it? Crazy. This morning all he thought might happen was enough of a scene to miss their flight to Phoenix… except, George thought about it for a minute, that was never the plan, not really. Who was he kidding? In his bones he knew the decision to get them here was the point. Then, somehow, to the island. After that… George saw the jaguar from his father’s story peek through a passing car window, reaching out, it’s howl lost in the noise.
Muttering to himself he says, “Jesus, George, she’s right… what have you done?”
Standing, George grabbed his maps and spun in circles, orienting himself to the new surroundings. A step off the curb, then another, guided by intuition, by the sun’s ancient compass. He holds out a hand, pointing, waving it back and forth like a divining rod looking for water. Which, he supposes, is exactly what he’s looking for.
“This way!” he excitedly shouts at Kathryn.
George glances back just long enough to see the green cab barreling past the curb and at him in the middle of the road. Crouching protectively into a ball, eyes closed, he expects the car to squash him. “George Perez, es muerto” is his last thought as he hears the cab screech to a stop. There’s quiet for a moment as the cacophony whooshes away with the echo of squealing brakes.
In that split second George hears a choir:
Well we know where we’re going
But we don’t know where we’ve been
Opening his eyes he sees his own reflection, inches from the faded chrome bumper.
As the cab recoiled from the abrupt stop, the driver leaned over his steering wheel to see a boy jump up excitedly.
George’s hands gesture wildly as if spotting a friend in a crowd, not as though he were standing in the path of an oncoming car.
George unfurls one of the maps and points to it: "Playa?"
The cabbie is a fountain of chatter, his hands more often pointing out the window than on the wheel. He swivels towards George and Kathryn, his gaze barely grazing the road, yet he navigates with the ease of a man tracing the lines of his own palm.
Introducing himself with a chest pat and a bright smile, "Miguel," he beams, leaving his last name to the imagination. His English, a patchwork but better than their Spanish, bridges the gap between them. Miguel, bursting with vibrancy, is determined to unveil the city's every corner. Buildings adorned in kaleidoscopic hues blur past, their stories as fleeting as Miguel's rapid-fire commentary.
They pause, momentarily, before a church adorned with a winding path leading up like a promise, stones worn smooth. Miguel gestures at it, the car barely slowing.
Some landmarks are honored with a nod and a few words, others dismissed with a flick—his way of saying, "There's a tale… you figure it out."
Another time, Miguel stops the car, exclaiming "Templo!" He mimics hammer and chisel. Following his gaze, George sees a titanic stone ruin, initially a jumble of shapes until the carvings emerge—serpents, jaguars, ancient faces etched into every surface.
"Look at the carvings!" George marvels.
Miguel agrees with a long, "Siii!"as if to say, "I did them myself, just this morning."
George lunges for his sketchpad, but the cab tears away. George’s "Wait!" is lost to the rattle of the car on the old streets.
The journey ends as abruptly as it began, with Miguel's expectant hand outstretched, his grin seeking theirs. An hour's whirlwind tour, clearly a ploy to pad the fare.
"How much?" Kathryn inquires.
"Mil pesos," Miguel states, hand still out.
Exchanging puzzled glances, Kathryn rummages for a $5 bill, only to meet Miguel's fatherly frown of disappointment. Digging deeper, she produces $10.
"Si!" Miguel's approval lights up the cab, sealing their adventure with a shared laugh over the exchange rate's mystery.
Outside the cab, now speeding away, George and Kathryn stand at yet another curb. This time, far from the airport, they find themselves on the edge of what the map had suggested was a bustling tourist scene.
“Magic,” George whispers, spellbound, breathing in the salty air and feeling the sun on his face. The sea stretches endlessly, a vast canvas where the sky and water blur into one. Not even his memories of the beach in Berkeley, with the silhouette of the Golden Gate Bridge, could have prepared him for this spectacle—or the sense of unease that now prickles his skin.
Water, like a lazy artist, flows down the slope into dirty pools of water, its journey to the gulf beyond thwarted by broken cobblestones. Beached fishing boats act as a dozen silent sentinels; their nets are tattered, their paint peeling like sunburned skin. Umbrellas, once vibrant, lie forgotten, their colors drained away. Palm trees seem to droop instead of sway, defeated.
A distasteful wind blows sand across the vacant beach.
He looks over his shoulder at Kathryn, who has dropped her coat and is sitting on a bench, weary from travel. George steps onto the sand. His winter boots leave long troughs behind as he moves further from the road.
Searching, his eyes scan as far left and right as he can see, hoping the sinking feeling making its way through his mind is just hunger.
But something about the view is wrong. George quickly pulls out the maps, taking another look. Yes, he’s in the right spot or as close to it as he can figure out.
Standing on an outcropping of stones, with the water lapping down below, he leans forward. His eyes sweep into the blue, skimming the waves. For a moment, the world seems to pause—the sound of the waves, the call of distant seabirds, the whisper of the wind—all converging as George’s heart sinks. Doubt creeps in, cold and unwelcome.
The black smudge, the supposed printer’s error he’d hoped was a clue, now feels like a cruel joke. He searches again, desperate for a sign, any sign.
But the sea offers nothing back, no hint of land, no shadow on the water. Just the endless, taunting blue.
The realization hits him like a wave: there is no island.
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Music
We’re On The Road to Nowhere - The Talking Heads
Crushing to realize there is no island! (Or is there...) Really loved this line: "Beached fishing boats act as a dozen silent sentinels; their nets are tattered, their paint peeling like sunburned skin."
One time I went to Nicaragua. I was buying some sweet bread from a street vendor and had no idea how the exchange rate worked, I handed him a twenty for two loaves. He widened his eyes and then bagged up almost every single loaf he had hahaha I shared with everyone on the trip