The Farthest Shore by Stewart J. McAbney [MileOut/MileStyle]





Hungry, confused, desperate, you curl up in the dinghy looking out into the bleak emptiness. Too tired for questions, your mind drifts through imagination after torrid imagination as you seek a warm thought to steady your mind, a reason for optimism.

Water splashes in as the wind encourages the sea to spill over the fluorescent flaps of the rapidly deflating vessel. Fog, wrapped around the sky, conceals the seascape. Nothing is here, nothing but the shadows of unseen entities, and they soon dart from sight as you turn on them.

> wait
Time passes...

> wait
Time passes...


Unexpected by even yourself after days of drifting, the dinghy lands roughly upon a reef of stones - land leads east into the unknown.

> e
You move east.
A lone tree weeps at the edge of the beach, its roots firmly planted in the grey sand. The wind toys with its fronds, a vicious unseen harpy, as the sea washes upon the sand, the sting of icy spray hanging in the air.

A hill leads up into the fog and your dinghy sits on the rocks to the west.

> s


Hungry, confused, desperate, you stagger out towards the light. Could it be a boat? Are they looking for you? Questions, questions, questions - all of them racing through your mind.
And into the water, slipping on the rocks as you go, your eyes locked upon the light, your mind fixed upon dreams of rescue. You don't feel the icy chill soak through your clothes, feel the sting of the wind fighting your advance.
And under the water you go as you head out beyond the shallow depths, the light shimmering somewhere above the surface - still, however, distant. It feels nice, now. The wind doesn't reach you here; the sea can't snap out at you with its watery talons.
You close your eyes and the light, like yours, is gone.

Somewhere, adrift on the farthest shore, a dinghy arrives on the rocks of an island shrouded in a steel fog.