The Name

"Yolanda," David called.

David had called, "Yolanda."

In the distance, a yacht drifted, leaving a singlemost star.

By the way, you shouldn't refer to these passages for exemplary usages of English, the English language. For that, go to the New York Times, or any of the respected newspapers. They will have the answers for you. Usually.

My island, our island, is where confusions and mistakes are not shunned. Trees grow, leaves scatter, and especially, palm trees stand still in a jagged line. And yet, the world is not perfect.

The world is not perfect.

Could he have called out, "Jocasta"? Vaguely he remembered the countours of a queen's head, buried in a pack of playing cards.

The continents, the continents. They confused him. They pushed him, shoved him, and also cajoled him. Those blocks of land, those blocks of clay, how could they exist? How do they not dissolve in the churning oceans? How do they not sink under the pressure?

David came to the island. He vaguely missed the continents and their faceless faces. Calling out the name, he knew, in that moment that was like a spark, that the island could disappear now, or never. And no one would ever know, or even remember.