Prose

"By the time Father tosses the last of our bags onto the boat, the ocean is ablaze with light. In all directions, flames flick their angry tongues at the sky behind a haze of gray. The heat tightens the skin on my arms and hands while sweat draws dark lines down my ash-coated torso. Through the wet cloth tied over my mouth and nose, each breath reeks of salt and ash.

         We thought we had more time. We were supposed to have more time. 

     Father waves his entire arm to draw my attention; his mouth is moving, but the wind swallows his voice. I run back across the thin strip of beach and it’s at that moment I decide to lie. He does not have to know what I found buried in the crumbled ashes of the neighbor’s house. He does not need to know how many of them were home or what fire can do to the human body. 

        Splinters dig deep into the palms of my hands when I stretch my arms ahead of me and push the boat with all my might. I dig my toes deeper into the wet sand, feel it try to suck me in with each labored step forward. Finally, the boat breaks loose from the sandbank and floats out onto deeper waters, violently rocking. I scan the beach one last time. The smoke stings my watering eyes. 

            No one.

         I turn back to the sea and wade down to my waist into the water. Father grabs me by the elbows and pulls me up until I manage to swing a leg over the side. I crash onto the floor, wheezing.

        Father starts rowing. I join him. We don't slow down until dusk. Then we look back: the island is a smoldering pyre now, drifting toward the sharp edge of a darkening sky. Thick gray clouds draw like incense to the sky, billowing every now and then in the wind.

          Only when dawn cracks like an egg on the horizon does Father lay down the oars. "Even Emma?"

            And I lie."

-Excerpt from a longer piece, McKenna Faulkner