Islands in a Sea of Time

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I watch listlessly as the ships pass me by, riding the sea of Time. Graceful ladies, gliding across a dance floor that no man can touch, lest he wither and die.

Look at me. This is what happens when any sense of how normal time passes disappears. You wax poetic and weepy like some lovesick teenager. I'm not a poet, I'm a sailor of Time's Ocean who got marooned for something that wasn't his fault.

My island isn't that remarkable, considering the wonders I saw in my time as a sailor. At first the broken-down skyscrapers fascinated me, the crashed airship amazed me. A rusted geschunterlofter (whatever the hell that is) sticks its jagged "fingers" up into the sky, sheltering me from the wind when the skinny palms on my beach are too weak to. I took wonder with me into my exile, and for a few months (years, decades, seconds) it was my armor against insanity. Now I stare at the husks of a forgotten age, the remnants of tomorrow's yesterdays, and all I can think of is how cruel it was that they left me food and water to last a lifetime (week, day, epoch).

"You've brought this on yourself," the captain said. "You have only yourself to blame," the engineer told me. "It's a mercy, and one you don't deserve at that," spat the helmsman. You'd think I'd killed their mothers rather than rid them of the vicious carbuncle that was that boatswain, the way they stood in judgment of me. He'd stripped the flesh off of us in stripes that would shame a tiger, and stolen our food to boot. He'd sassed the captain, struck the engineer, and spit on the helmsman, and they were leaving me on my island in the Sea of Time to thank me.

Time's Ocean is not as beautiful as you are told. The colors that are written about do not do it justice, truly. They are colors you have never seen before, and they are terrible. You cannot describe them properly to someone who has not seen them, either. How would I describe to you the color of the distant past? The colored band that flows at the top of Time that could be either futures yet to come or futures that never will is a violent shade, an eyesore to bake your retinas and scratch your lenses. It's not a green, a red, a violet or a fuschia. It's..... monstrous.

Occasionally I hear voices pass in the night. Chronoships, cruising by, their crews giddy with excitement or heady with drink, thinking of plunder or discovery. My crew was kind enough to maroon me on the Island Closest to the Nexus, but we all know what it really is. This little prison of mine is the junk heap to the Ages, and it gets far more traffic than it should.

Every day (hour, minute, millions of years), more flotsam and refuse from Time washes ashore. On one occasion, I found an outdated portable toilet. On another, a wallet-sized computer that told me how many neurons were firing in my brain at once. Two bodies washed up (yesterday) a while ago, sailors that fell overboard. One of them had the head of a small child, the arm of a crone, and the breasts of a young woman. She must have fallen from a great height to be caught in so many Time currents at once. The other was clearly a Floater, uniformly aged beyond his years into a mummified husk by drifting on a current made solely of one timestream. He must have chosen.... poorly.

I can see the second island nearer to the Nexus from the top of the airship's crumbling frame. It's little more than a zit on Time's watery ass from here, but it still makes me giddy. It's South of my island and perhaps a bit East. Were there nighttime in this abyss I could tell for sure, but there is no sun here. Only the pulsating light of the Nexus. If my words confuse you, whoever finds this, North is any direction leading straight away from the Nexus. To find East and West, you must simply put your back to the Nexus and hold out your arms. West is clockwise from the nexus, and East counter-clockwise. Still, the island looms, tantalizingly close. If I can see it, I might be able to get there.

No, no, mustn't say it, mustn't think it. Shouldn't write it. No man, no woman, no creature can survive Time's flow unshielded. Even the great chronophobic ships that I used to sail could only protect themselves for so long. Time wounds all heels, they say, and every ship's chronofield will wear and fade if not tended to. Still, I can feel the rat that is madness gnawing its way into my heart, and the pull of Time is growing stronger. How easy it would be to leap off the cliff overlooking the condemned skyscrapers, to dive into Time as if it were merely a salty sea. I suppose I could even enjoy the experience, my body aging faster or slower by degrees depending on which currents were ravaging my frame. Who knows - I could find the legendary Static Stream and be preserved for eternity (until I reached the Nexus), a testament to the barbarism that rules a chronoship's crew.

I have no idea how long the power will last on this little device. I cannot read the glyphs on its surface, but a likely symbol seems to be half full. Of course, that could just be an indication that I'm half dead, for all I know. If it dies, it won't be my fault. No more than that bastard boatswain's death was my fault. I never meant to kill him. If I had, I would have made it clean. Not..... not like it was. No man deserves that fate.

Gasp! No, no, nonononono! How am I to survive?

Oh, wonderful. Thank you, tiny machine, for recording EVERYTHING that comes out of my mouth, rather than just what I want you to show. Too late now to make me sound less of a craven fool. As is clearly indicated by what I assume is a language scrolling across the screen of my companion (that's what I call this device now, it's the only thing here that gives a semblance of intelligence), it wrote down my panicked cries.

There's a Time Storm brewing to the North. I can see the bands raising up and outward, spiraling out of the Sea like a hand grasping at the sky. I don't even know if my little island is made of Rock - it might just be stone. If it is, I'm doomed for sure. I could be swept away and swallowed, island exile and all. If it is Rock, I may just have a chance...

Of course. The geschunterlofter. I knew I had recognized some of the plating on its "fingers". Bear with me, little companion. I may be able to build us a 'phobic shelter.

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-ays to me. So I kicked her down the stairs, and she never brought it up again.

Wait. Hold still, companion. Can you hear it? I think the storm is over. Yes, it is. Gods..... our island home has been torn asunder. Apparently there was some Rock to our exile after all, but not enough. We ourselves are safe, but I fear that the island has too little to sustain us. It's a good thing you reminded me to bring in the food and water (are you truly learning my language? remarkable!) when you did.

Still, most of the flotsam is gone. No more tools at easy access, no more alien devices and ancient writings to occupy my time. Not that I despise you, dear device, but I fear that if it were just you and I you would bore of me and deactivate.

My island is shredded. The sands and stone have vanished, replaced with the ravages of Time's Sea. We have but a small space left, and I'm afraid it's not enough. Look, little device, do you see? The Time Storm has left our neighbor island untouched. And this shelter of ours was malleable enough to be made into a hut, and has proven chronophobic after all. Perhaps...

... steel yourself, little pilot of the palm. Soon we shall attempt to craft a skiff to brave the currents. Our time on this little island has come to an end.

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