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.
“I’m alive. Points for me,” George grumbled as he swung his legs over the side of the building. In the light of morning, nothing about this place seemed scary—except, of course, that he was on an island alone.
Peeking over the trees in blinding rays of gold was the morning sun. Everything carried the deep smell of rest, the island still waking after a long night. He twitched his nose, catching a whiff. Still sore.
Dropping down to the side of the building—his nest of vines somewhere above—George heard a crinkling in the satchel. He’d noticed it the night before but had been too tired, too dark, to investigate. Pulling the bag off his shoulder, he began to empty it.
Several large chips of glass fell to the ground, followed by the broken stem of a bottle. The whole thing looked about the size of a cassette jewel case. He sniffed the tacky smear on his fingers. Then he felt his shirt, still clinging to him, and gave it a whiff. The bottle must have broken when his nose was smashed by the door. The scent wasn’t unpleasant—floral, almost like Grandma’s perfume. Cloying. Yes, cloying was the word. Probably invented by some poor guy trapped in an elevator with too many Avon ladies. He huffed it out of his nose all the same.
The rest of the satchel held only a few small rocks and a folded leaf.
Great. A rock collection. Maybe he’d trade them at recess.
Just junk a kid might keep around, like that drawer of knickknacks he used to have. And just like that drawer, he dropped them back inside. Nothing ever really gets thrown away.
Standing, he froze at the sound of a deep growl. Eyes scanning the bushes, he braced, waiting for a beast to rush him. The sound rolled again—long and low—until he realized it was his own stomach. He sighed. It had been a full day since he’d eaten anything.
Looking around, there was only the greenery of the island.
It wasn’t like he could saunter to the corner bodega for a Jolt and a package of Twinkies. God, he’d kill for those. He could almost feel the sponge cake squish between his teeth and the burn of Jolt etching away the inside of his mouth, his throat, even his stomach lining.
If only.
His stomach growled again. A lizard skittered into the brush. George considered it, then winced at the image of skewering it—small stick through the mouth, leathery body roasting over hot coals.
He hadn’t lasted long in the Boy Scouts—just long enough to know he didn’t belong, not long enough to learn how to start a fire. Now he’d have to figure things out on his own. Kathryn would find her way here eventually, with or without Roberto. But how long would that take? And in the meantime, could he—would he—go native enough to eat a lizard? Not a chance. That never happened on the only other island he could think of. And since George was clearly more Gilligan than Professor, the odds weren’t good.
But that did give him an idea: coconuts.
Squinting at the nearby trees, he searched one after another.Nope. Nah. Hmm.Not a single coconut tree. Bananas grew on trees too, didn’t they? Maybe so, but not around here.
Hunger gnawed at him. Then a thought hit, and he grabbed his things and pushed into the thicket at the clearing’s edge.
He retraced his steps from the afternoon before. And yes—there it was: corn. Rows of it, taller than him. More than he could ever eat.
George grabbed at the nearest ear and pulled. The stalk leaned, refusing to let go. He yanked harder. Nothing. Bracing both hands like a baseball bat, he leaned back with all his weight, nearly pulling the plant from the ground. Until—snap! The ear tore free and smacked him in the chest. Before he could regain his balance, the stalk rebounded and flicked him in the head—a vegetable admonishment.
Embarrassed, he glanced around, biting his lip. They weren’t there, of course, yet he could almost hear the boys’ giggling—the same stifled squeaks that spilled from behind the crates of chickens.
Quickly—his hunger stronger than his shame—he yanked the husk apart like disposable gift wrap. Inside, he flicked off the silk and bit solidly into the corn. Sweet juice ran down his face. It was the most wonderful taste he could have imagined—sweet and hearty, everything at once. He paused only briefly before devouring it, ravenous, like a mad beaver chomping at a tree. In minutes, every kernel was gone.
He grabbed another, twisting this time, and tore it free. Then another, shoving it into the satchel.
His mood brightened instantly. This, he reasoned, was the original corn in corn sweetener. He smiled, wiping the juice on his forearm. Then, a burp. It wasn’t Jolt and Twinkies, but it was a beautiful substitute.
With the sun at his back he made his way past the building where he’d spent the night, tearing green leaves off another ear of corn, a trail of debris falling behind. He walked past the tree where the owl had perched, then onward, toward what looked like an old path winding through the growth and up the slope of the mountain, buoyed by the sudden rush of sugar.
As he walked, shapes emerged in the brush—stone outlines of squares and rectangles, scattered like bones. A few walls still stood, timbers dug deep to hold up scraps of roof. George climbed onto the stump of a tree for a better view. Like a village made of playing cards blown away in a massive gust, the buildings—what was left of them—lay scattered, vines and brush threading through until the outlines were barely visible.
George stared at the remnants of the village. “Whoa! De-rezzed… by the Master Control Program.”
He stepped down, tugging his backpack close as he wound through the wreckage. Everything looked washed away. Even the remaining bare lumber, now rotted, was bent and twisted by some great force. None of this was new, he realized, but years old. He was seeing it in the in-between: after the village was alive, before time and weather erased it completely. A time capsule cracked open and dumped out in front of him.
As George looked at the spaces that had been homes, stores, and other buildings he caught sight of something ahead. Moving around a pile of debris to where it seemed all the paths in the village converged—a group of bodies lay at the base of the only tree still standing. As he got closer he could see them, slack and twisted together, not moving. He approached slowly, his steps tentative as the shapes became more clear. They weren’t people but dolls—faded, hand-hewn and rough, made of cloth or burlap. Their faces, expressions of wide-eyed stillness, were stitched or painted on. Here, in a jumble, they looked like castaways, piled haphazardly.
“Like an altar…” George said, studying the tableau.
Circling the tree, he noticed a slab of wood wedged into the roots, the paint long faded but still legible:
Por los niños perdidos en la tormenta, septiembre de 1974.
The words stopped him. Not just dolls, then. Memorials. He read the inscription again: For the children lost in the storm, September 1974.
The words blurred as another voice crowded in—Roberto’s, low and flat: “I tried to open something I shouldn’t have.”
At the time George hadn’t understood what Roberto meant, just one of his strange riddles. But here, in front of this altar of dolls, the words pressed against the storm date like two halves of the same story.
Had he opened something that brought the storm? Was this part of the curse?
George’s stomach lurched. He couldn’t be sure, but the thought stuck, like a splinter just poking out of the skin.
As he moved around the tree George could see that some dolls were propped up on the empty shells of sea turtles, the puzzle-like shapes pale and lifeless. All of the dolls looked like they hadn’t been touched in years. The sun had bleached the materials, wearing them thin or torn apart like they’d been attacked by animals, the innards of grass and corn leaves yanked open, dismembered and disintegrating.
Then one of the husks twitched. A lizard burst from a doll’s split chest, skittering across the heap. George jerked back with a strangled sound, heel catching on a stone. He stumbled, doubled over, his stomach revolting. A dry heave wrenched through him—half from the sight, half from the sour weight of corn sitting heavy in his gut.
The heap shivered again—not all at once, but in a slow ripple, dolls toppling one after another as if nudged by unseen hands. Stitched mouths split wider, painted eyes rolling toward him. And underneath it, a shimmer of children’s laughter, light and breathless, rising with the movement.
Another line came, Roberto’s voice flat in his memory: “…mi tierra remembers. The blood, the ash—the history is all still there, bound beneath your feet.”
The wave pressed him back step by step, driving him up the rise before he realized he was moving.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, throat raw. The sweetness of the corn had curdled, gone sour in his gut, heavy as a brick. His lips were parched. All at once, he realized how thirsty he was. He patted the satchel, looking for something that didn’t exist: water.
What he really needed was a coconut.
With a lime.
Then he’d feel much better.
The line looped in his head with the stubborn rhythm of a song he half remembered, the kind that stuck whether you wanted it or not.
Backing away from the tree, George climbed a small rise. He wanted to keep the dolls in sight. Forgotten though they were, he couldn’t look away. The ruins radiated in every direction from that central point, and the higher he climbed, the clearer it looked—as if some giant arm had swept the board clean, brushing all the pieces aside.
His foot snagged on a root. He pitched backward, landing hard on his butt. The ground gave a little, then more—soft, crumbling, sliding out from under him. Dirt and rocks tumbled ahead, vanishing into a thin splash below. The echo came back fast, off walls he couldn’t see.
He was sliding, spinning. Hands grabbed for anything—dirt, air—nothing. A scream built in his throat—then stopped. Choked off. The strap of the satchel whipped tight across his chest, corn jammed hard against his neck. His body jerked to a halt, feet dangling over empty space.
Below yawned a vast pool of water, mountain reflected perfectly across its surface. Bright jungle light burned the rim, but inside the sinkhole everything dimmed, the air cooler, shadows clinging to the stone. The water lay unnaturally still, rippling only where the dirt kept falling.
George gagged, pulling at the strap for breath. His weight dragged him further down. A voice crowded in, sudden and sharp in his head—one of the boys back on the boat: Cuídalo bien. Keep it safe.
Safe. Yeah, right. The satchel was safe all right—safe as a noose.
But as he twisted, he saw it: the bag wasn’t budging. The stupid corn sack was jammed solid, unmoving even as he jerked against it.
George’s brain sparked. If the satchel was stuck, then maybe… maybe it could keep the backpack safe too.
Safe from the fall. Safe from the water.
He pictured it—journal pages bled to nothing, sketches turned to pulp, the Walkman sparking briefly beforedying. Everything he’d carried from home, gone in one splash.
He froze, air sawing in and out. Survival said: wriggle out, drop. But that meant letting go. His father’s words, the only map he had—gone. For a second he clung to the strap, wishing it would hold forever, even as it strangled him.
But forever was only seconds. The world kept going dark.
George kicked his legs like scissors, twisting, trying to slip free. The satchel shifted, corn grinding harder into his chest. He tried pulling himself up—instant regret. Gym pull-ups, the one thing he’d always flunked. “Why didn’t they make this the test?” he wheezed.
Fumbling, half-blind with panic, he wrestled one strap through the other, knotting his backpack into the tangle. His fingers slipped further, but the straps held together just enough.
He braced, sucked what air he could, and shoved one shoulder through, then the other, skin burning as they slipped over and he twisted free.
He glanced once—the satchel still jammed, the pack woven tight, hopefully—then his grip slipped and his stomach dropped with the fall. The acid from the corn rose to meet his throat on the way down.
The world slowed as he fell. Below, fish flickered through the water, moss drifting in slow currents. And there—just visible in the shimmer—was the faint shape of a girl. She was kneeling, then standing, her gaze never leaving him as if waiting, watching from the bottom of the pool.
Then the vision shattered as he plunged in.
Cold swallowed him whole. Bubbles roared in his ears as he thrashed, arms and legs striking at nothing.
He forced his eyes open against the sting. Above, a circle of light shimmered, fractured by ripples. And there—impossible—was the girl again. Not below him this time but above, looking down through the wavering water as though she stood on solid ground.
George kicked toward her, lungs and stomach burning.
For a moment her eyes locked on his, holding him as if she knew him.
Then he burst into the air with a gasp——and gagged hard, hurling up half-chewed corn. Kernels sprayed out like buckshot, catching the light before splashing back over his face.
George blinked, coughing, humiliated by his own body.
By the time he looked up, she was gone.
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Music
Coconut - Harry Nilsson
Yeah, I was curious if you’ve ever eaten corn from the field stalk? Sweet or other
And the moral of that story is, "Call me in the morning and I'll tell you what to do." He's on his own...