Story by Damien Ryan
After they had played a few games one said he should be getting to bed and the other said it was time for him to stroll home. They shook hands, their eyes met and then they parted ways.   Back on ground level he paused in the doorway of the apartment. Noise flung itself at him from all sides in some jarring form or other. He took out and lit a cigarette then, looking both ways cautiously first, he stepped onto the street and joined the stream of people. The pace seemed to be set for him by those in front and behind; a fast pace, and the task of keeping up and navigating obstacles made sure the mind did not wander. As he was bustled along he began to sense some strand of the survival instinct kicking in : he usually thought of himself as a courteous enough sort of fellow, however he caught himself dropping the shoulder and plunging forward mercilessly when some free space opened up invitingly. When his eyes were not fixed on the pavement directly in front of his feet they darted up nervously, skipping across faces, but never resting on other eyes.   >In this state he moved up Broadway. After a while the effort of being amongst so many people became a burden, so he changed course. Taking a right he started to cut across town until he came to Fifth. With the lights and noise behind him, Central Park on his left and an empty road ahead he once again began to travel up town.   Alone, he felt himself relax and let his pace drop down a few gears to a more thoughtful pace. His gaze wandered freely along the lines of the city and then into the dark expanse of the park where shadows went about their business to the sound of wind and leaves. The weather had been flexing its muscles over the last few days and the night was cold; it left the city smelling clean. A shiver wandered up his spine as shadows slipped over the wall of the park, trying to sneak up and steal him away. Now he felt alone and to get away from it he started to cut across town again, hoping to do a little people watching. But there were no people, it was too late. He kept cutting across and going up by turns, but no one.   His travels took him by a motionless figure hunched in the gloom of a flight of steps, its hand outstretched, palm up. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a note, checked it wasn,’t a big one, and placed it into the hand which slowly closed over its rare prize.   His walk was nearing its end. His mind was preoccupied with the small tasks he would have to confront before catching his plane the next day. Ahead of him a taxi pulled up outside a well-to-do apartment building. A woman got out. As she came into the light of her building a part of the night materialised and deftly commandeered her bag. Her cries brought the attention of the omnipresent law which began to give chase. Stopping to take out a cigarette he observed this scene. A word rose up within him and echoed around his head : run!   In the foggy confusion between consciousness and unconsciousness he felt warm water lapping up and down his legs. Thinking he must be wetting himself he jerked forward. What he saw was unexpected: he was half in and half out of the ocean. Images from the last moments before the crash surfaced in his memory like bubbles rising and popping. There was no sign of any wreckage. Looking around he saw that the piece of land he had washed up on was tiny and completely bare : it was a nose of sand that had been pushed up from the depths and just managed to break into the air. From above it was a drop of turquoise and gold in unchecked deepest blue. He supposed he should be grateful to this sandy oddity, however he had a sinking suspicion that their relationship could not but turn sinister.   There was no shade and not a cloud in the sky. As the day went on he began to roast. Sitting in the ocean was an escape of sorts, but even then he was simmering. He was pondering this situation when he saw a crab bustle out of a retreating wave, hurry up the beach and vanish don a hole. Inspired by this he dug his own hole into which he could slide backwards to hide from the sun.   Lying in his hole, eye-balling the ocean, thirst became an issue, aggravated by the sight and sound of water a few feet in front of his dry lips. After another period of eye-balling he disregarded what he had heard about the effects of sea water, tumbled to the ocean,’s edge and lowered his head to drink.   As days passed the hope of rescue wandered further into the realm of the improbable. The severance from human contact began to turn ugly on him: one afternoon he caught a turtle and fro some time held it up close to his face, searching its eyes for some meaning. All he found was patient bewilderment. He needed to escape what had become his existence. A plan took from in his salt-soaked mind. He remembered that shortly before the plane went down it had been announced that they were crossing the International Date Line. The concept took on a divine symbolism; if he could please whatever deity resided in this part of the world alone he might strike a bargain and have time turned back. On this note he developed suitable rituals. He offered up his soul.   Time moved slowly forward. He fell into a routine. At night he scavenged for crabs and drank from the ocean; then he would perform his rituals until dawn. During the day he slept in his hole and in the afternoons, towards dusk, he maintained and enlarged it. If you happened to be passing by when the sun was setting you would hear his song drifting out of his front door: “We,’ve got high hopes!"