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.
January 1986
She had trouble sleeping lately. It wasn’t the moon or the voices she’d often hear around the island, but something else—it was like a clock ticking in her head, loud and persistent. But tonight, it stopped completely, leaving her in silence. That feeling settled like a table with a missing leg—her head and heart askew.
Looking skyward through the window from her bed, she sniffed at the wind. The clouds that had been there just a few hours ago were gone, never signaling—with any bluster this time of year—their arrival or exit. She’d seen them coming and closed the windows, making sure she was anchored properly. The breakwater here on the leeward side of the island did a good job of keeping the water calm.
She was used to getting wet. Living in the naajha meant there were always repairs to do, above and below water. She knew every inch of it—from the timber frames to her own woven mats that dotted the floor. Just as she knew the coastline, and anyone who came ashore.
Maybe that’s what kept her awake tonight—the boat she’d seen earlier? Fishing boats from the mainland never came this far unless they were lost. Tourists out for an excursion, maybe. But she knew the locals would never give directions, never take a group sightseeing here. Their fear and secrecy kept even the thought from crossing their minds, and never let it sit long on their tongues. Most days, the sun would rise and fall along the curved shell of sky without her seeing another human face.
She sighed, pulled a small bag over her shoulder, and opened the door. Her feet stopped abruptly as she looked down. On the small mat she kept there to wipe away the sand was an egg. She knelt, touching it instinctively. The shell was still warm, like it hadn’t been in the night air long…
Above her, on the roof of the naajha, she heard movement.
Turning, she saw a bird, its body nearly as big as her own torso, standing there in the moonlight. The head of the owl turned silently, looking down at her, making eye contact. For a long moment neither of them looked away.
She looked at the egg again then said aloud, “Where did you get this, friend?”
The bird said nothing in return, turning to scan the shoreline beyond.
Cradling the egg gently she picked it up, turning it in the moonlight to inspect the shape. It was almost too large for one of her hands to hold. As she lifted it she found something stuck to the underside: a piece of green, rough in texture.
She peeled it away, studying it for a moment, feeling the wiry strands in the shape and knew it at once: the dark leaf of a corn stalk. Not the soft petals that border the silk but the hardened leaves along the shaft that bake in the sun, turning dark green until they become brittle as the stalks lay down, returning to the earth.
Finding it here, stuck to the egg, meant it had come from the inland cornfield, not the shore.
Carrying the egg she moved along the outer walkway of the structure, the softly lapping tide just a few inches below her feet. At the far side of the structure, facing the dark waters beyond, she turned and opened a large, woven box. Inside lay a few inches of sand. With her free hand she dug a hole and set the egg down next to several others then covered it almost fully in the warm sand.
“You’ll be safe here,” she said, taking one last look as she closed the box.
It always felt too small, the promise she gave them. Still, she kept the ritual, because if she didn’t, who else would?
Her feet moved carefully, practiced, in the dark along the wooden path back to her door. She paused to look up at the roof but the owl was gone. Its arrival and departure equally as silent.
The boards creaked and shifted on the long walkway from her floating house to the shore. At the last step she stopped briefly, leaning to pick something from the woven basket tied to a post.
She lifted the small bottle in the moonlight, its liquid thinner than honey. Dipping a finger, she marked the wood, then her own hand. A quiet offering—part gift, part guard—so the restless ones would keep their distance.
The waves moved nearly invisibly on the shore, lit by stars and moon, as she stepped further and toward the intercoastal, where she’d seen the boat dip—but not return from.
George’s face was tender from the tip of his nose to his cheek. He wiped at it, the blood crusty around his nostril. He scrunched his nose and felt pain. The jaguar’s hit on the door must have sent it to his top gums, too.
He had no idea how long he’d been asleep—not all night, but maybe a few hours. Before the sun went down, he was able to size up the room—not much bigger than the footprint of a station wagon. The interior walls were crumbling, plaster nearly gone from most of them. But it seemed sturdy. Sturdy enough to protect him from the jaguar, right?
Now, it was dark, like the power had been cut. Unlike a night without power in the city, there were no impromptu block parties outside. Just the quiet skittering of things and a bird shouting somewhere in the distance.
Wild, George thought, everything outside is wild. It’s not Disneyland.
His clothes stuck to him as he stood, still wet. He reset the satchel on his shoulder; something had broken inside, leaving a faint tackiness he hadn’t noticed before. He rolled his shoulders, shoving off the crick in his neck.
What he hadn’t noticed before—couldn’t have noticed—was how the roof let in starlight. A million pinholes in the vines made it look like he was watching space through a kaleidoscope. For a moment he just stood there and looked up.
But he could only see part of the sky, just the tiny lights between the thinnest vines. To see more, he’d have to go outside. And that’s where the jaguar was. He glanced at the door and decided against it.
But maybe there was another way…
He spied a hole in the ceiling. The building had looked in shambles yesterday when he saw it through the clearing–battered and worn by more than just time. Water must have poured in and ruined the walls underneath, leaving him a ladder of wooden studs to climb.
He pulled himself up, peeking his head out for just a moment to look around. Turning his head like a periscope, he listened over the twist of vines. There was a light wind, cool, leaves blowing. But he couldn’t hear anything moving. Most importantly, nothing stalking below the walls.
And the light. Wow! He was surprised at how much light the stars… and moon… fell on the ground. It wasn’t daylight, but he could see the clearing he’d run through to get here, and the same tree where the owl had perched, watching him escape into the building.
George let himself back down the hole for a moment, thinking.
Surely a jaguar couldn’t jump up here, right?
No. It was too high. Besides, would getting mauled be worse than missing out on the light show above? Yes, probably. But it might be worth the risk. This he had to see in just the right way—a private invitation with musical accompaniment.
George rummaged through his backpack, his things spilling to the dirt floor. Even in the dark, he knew which tape he wanted—the one with the cracked case. He popped it in and snapped his headphones in place.
Ugh. He’d forgotten to rewind. It didn’t matter which track he landed on—except maybe not the one that sounded like the nightly news.
Click. Rewind. Play. Rewind. Stop.
He pocketed the Walkman and pulled himself all the way up.
George spread his weight across the vines, choosing the thickest to hold as he moved. He shifted carefully, quietly toward the center of the roof. Once he’d found a spot, he lay back, head facing up at the night sky.
His mouth fell open.
Without looking, his hand settled on the buttons of the Walkman and pressed PLAY.
George looked up as the music settled in. He didn’t know a thing about orchestras—not an oboe from a harp, really. But he knew when the sound of it playing against the right backdrop felt like stepping into a movie. Like now.
It wasn’t just stars. It was everything. Whole constellations shimmered in a sharpness he’d never seen in Chicago or St. Louis—never anywhere. Planets shone like lanterns. Stars winked and wheeled.
There was too much to see, too much to take in. The music swelled, as if pulling every star close enough to touch. His skin rippled with goosebumps and his eyes began to water, blurring his vision at the edges.
Magical was the only word George could find—magical, and impossibly beautiful. He felt like an interstellar traveler, the entire universe laid out for him alone, one breath away from jumping to lightspeed.
And there, coming over the darkened shape of the mountain, was another light. Not a shooting star, quickly burning out, but one that trailed long in the sky.
George sat up, turning to get a better view.
A smudge of brilliant light in the blackness. Different than all the others—brighter, closer.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of it as the music in his headphones swelled. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Nicte lingered in the dark, watching the boy on the rooftop.
He shifted, looking upward, and she stayed with him—silent, unseen—as the minutes slipped by.
When he sat up, she crouched low, further from sight, the damp earth cool beneath her palms.
Watching, she saw his head twist just slightly. Her eyes followed his gaze, past the vines and the stars, to the streak burning across the night.
A comet.
If you like what you’ve read, please share it.
Have something to say? Just drop a comment below. I’m happy to answer questions
Music
Venus, the Bringer of Peace - Gustav Holst
The majesty of the night sky in open country has always fascinated me. A new character enters the scene: a guide? a romantic interest? Both? It just keeps getting better, J.
What a beautiful experience for George. I love when a piece of music brings on that frisson.