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  • Zander inherited the island from a hermit great uncle who lived out the Cold War alone and in fear on Pelican Cay. His first trip to meet the Bahamian lawyer charmed him. So began a decade long persuasion to move our happy land locked life to an island in the sound. "I'm not built for island life," I plead with him. Mosquito feast on my plump pale skin. My arms burn and blister in the Caribbean sun. Zanders is captured by the romance of our own treasure island.

    Tumbling in humid sheet I suffer through the first year on Pelican. Covered in poison wood rash I itch my ankles raw. The isolation and the incisive beating of waves chip away at my sanity. Rock fever releases an evil in Zander deepened by pints of local rum. Like a fairy tale princess in a unreachable tower he cuts me off from the world. My fingers rub the gold pocket watch as it ticks away my days. A reminder that once I was a woman with a businessman father and a place in society. Now I'm a crazed prisoner kept in a cinder block fortress haunted by the spirit of a madman.

    The waves that cause our madness could easily be my salvation. A fitting end off the limestone cliffs. I watch the Man-O-War built sailing skiff disappear on the horizon. One day to Marsh Harbour and another to return are my monthly reprieve from the monster. As night falls I go to the cliff to meet my end. Something in my soul keeps screaming live. I strike a match to light the burner. Grip the knob to open the flow. Bobbing on the gentile waves I watch the flaming needles of the Caesarian pines wave in the wind. The smoking branches light up the moonless night; signaling my end.

    My first attempt at flash fiction. Inspired by the ruin of a house on North Pelican Cay, Great Abaco Bahamas. Supposedly blown up in a propane fire.
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