Image by Nathan Anderson
Islands
A miniature anthology of miniature stories for 
The Cycle
Trapped in the whirlpool’s throes, more powerful than even all the world's rows. Black hole of the sea; devourer of monsters, ships and men. Life didn’t flash before their eyes but ran in spirals to nauseating end. A rollercoaster with no exit.
The Hole
Stranded like a bug without wings. Puerile, infinitesimally small. His planet hadn’t moved for millennia. Earth, his magnum opus, was unavailable to his sight and cosmic touch. ’What do they think of my absence’, he wondered. Just like a shipwrecked father he spent more time thinking what the others thought of his departure than the isolation bestowed itself.
U.S.V
We are the united states of vehicles. When we drive we are driven by our cars. ‘Hurry’, ‘watch out’, ‘fuck you’ and ‘thank you’ are all we can say. Moving environments encased in snow globes. Our bubbles can’t pop, but they can crack - and that’s not good.
Sailors Sorrows
The bottle, filled with rum, was the raft that let him float. A holiday away. On this island there was no time. Away from others, he could commit no crime.
Campus Country
To have called Lauren naive would be to presume that she was only incidentally naive - or that she knew not that which she did not partake in. But she had nonetheless underestimated the extent to which the university world and the ‘real world’ were separate. The temptation of crumbs on a kitchen island eventually draws flies with nothing but reckless abandon.
Writers Rock
Getting out of his head was a trek. First, he would have to jot down all his ideas. The bad ones and the tangential ones all the same. Then he would spend days weeks and months writing and editing them into a book. Then, he would be found by others, rescued by understanding. And, after a few moments of relief, he would be trapped once again on those rocky shores.
Message in the soil
We are the trees. We are all connected so we need not communicate. Some humans have shown us love, others hate. We hasten to reply but our messages take longer than even the longest of their lifetimes. Yet we wait patiently for the day on which we can share our knowledge, and shall we and them both last, that day will surely come.
Conclusion
Oh message in a bottle! To be found at the end of infinity and not til. What matters most, what is said or by whom it is read? And if the paper degrades does the sentiment last..and in that time will the helplessness sent become a fact of the past?