Sam Michelson

Sam Michelson was born in the hands of ruin and built up from the arm of riches. His mother used to tell him stories about how hard they struggled when he was born. About how long it took his father to rise in the ranks to become the latest CEO of the Michelson Mobile company at only 35. Their family had to live off meager incomes and deal with high-stakes stress and publicity. They were attacked on all fronts and felt as though they were falling apart, his mother would tell him. Having a child made it worse, but they were determined to make their family better. They would love one another and raise him right. They would make his life better than their own. He'd owned the business for the past twenty-nine years, and at the ripe age of 64, was ready to hand off the business to his only son.

Sam knew the stories were shit.

And Sam also knew that there were multiple ways to lose his father's grace. The best way, he'd discovered, was when he started to date Daniel Casanaro--local fuck-boy and gentle lover of the passing ages. It was a slow fall from grace--each feather of his beautiful wings plucked before they tossed him off that golden throne. The sharpened green eyes of his father lost favor, the roughly-spoken 'I love you's' lost flavor, and their long and open talks became short and trite. His mother, though, was the worst to deal with her son's disgrace.

She never stopped smiling at him. Not when she told him to leave his boyfriend, not when she told him that he'd never be welcomed back, and not when she told him that she'd personally find him in hell.

So Sam Michelson, with the world at his fingertips, walked away.

It was romantic. It was rushed. It was beautiful and everything out of a movie--the two of them, running into the distant sunset with hands clasped and tongues tied. They were together and nothing, no one, could pull them apart. Who needed money? Who needed family? They had one another. They were their own family. It was perfect.

They spent the last of their money on a honeymoon--a trip to the exotic Caribbean on a ship called the Prospero. They booked a flight to Miami, waited several hours, and got on the ship headed to the distant south. Now, the two of them sat in their room within the ship, not feeling the rolling tide or the sway of the ship. Instead, they felt themselves and lay on the bed with Sam's head on Danny's chest. Danny caressed Sam's cheek and tugged at his hair with his long, pale fingers.

"You should grow it out," Danny said.

"My hair?" Sam laughed. "I'd look stupid."

Danny twirled it between his fingers. His voice was honey dripping from bread. "I think you'd look handsome."

"You say that about everything."

The two of them were silent and relished in the sound of each other's breathing. Sam knew nothing more than the way it felt...and the way his heart still had sharp pains going through it. He needed to take something to ease the anxiety. He needed to stop feeling and breathing and just become one with where he was and forget that he'd just lost everything--but he couldn't. He couldn't forget that his entire life was just taken from him. He couldn't forget that he was on a cruise ship with no money to his name, laying next to a man who's only signifier was the new name he'd taken on, wasting his potential all for...what? Romantic idealizations arisen from a lustful year of hidden sex, taboo kisses, and lies?

Sam was supposed to be happy now. Free from a world of perfection and cold love. Life was meant to show him the stupid montage of them building a new one together. A new world, a new home, a new identity forged in their desperation and love. Things were supposed to feel right, constantly, and there be nothing to drag him away or make him hate himself for his choices.

But that just wasn't true. And now, he sat on a cruise ship with the entire world ahead of him and felt pains in his chest as his throat tightened up. Rocks lay at the edges of his graveled voice. When he spoke, it broke the silence and tore the moment to pieces.

"What now?"

There was no immediate answer. It was quiet. Danny, sweet, beautiful, contemplative Danny, waited. Gently, he stroked Sam's face, letting his fingers dance across his nose, his cheekbones, only to slowly fall onto his lips. Sam eagerly kissed his husband's fingers, giving them the slightest nibble, and smiled. It wasn't a verbal answer. It wasn't an answer at all.

What now? Danny wasn't going to respond. He probably didn't hear him to begin with. He was quiet, drifting off to slip, his heartbeat slow and steady. His breath gentle. He was everything. Sam felt another ping and swallowed down the pain. I don't know what's next. His mind felt raw. Used. Too open, too free, too lost within an infinity reality that held too many possibilities.

"Let's go," Sam said, lifting himself up.

Danny's eyes flashed open and he smiled. "Go where?" His voice was caught between asleep and amused.

"Anywhere. Outside. I want to feel the sea," Sam said, already slipping on his shoes. His body needed to move. He needed to move. It was too stiff. Too still. Too motionless.

Danny followed him up to the deck. A strong wind blew past, slapping their faces. Danny's shirt lifted up and Sam slipped his hands underneath it, giving his man the tightest hug. Afraid to let go.

"I love you," Sam said. It no longer was the taboo excitement of before, and the words slipped out unnoticed by Danny, who was already pulling out a packet of cigarettes and standing by the rails.

"Looks like it's gonna rain," Danny said. He tilted his head at the sky. Lingering blacks and blues danced against one another as the wind moved them, traveling towards the boat. "Think we should head back in for the night? We can stop by and grab dinner, snag some wine, and party in our room."

Nothing sounded better. Nothing sounded worse.

Sam smiled, chuckled, then shook his head. "Nah. Later." He walked over to where chairs had been set up for viewing. A few people walked past, but otherwise, they were alone in the quiet peace of the day. "Let's just sit for right now."

"We can sit forever."

Brewing on the edges of Danny's chin was a shadow darker than the one lining the horizon. They sat on the deck of the ship, enjoying their honeymoon in all the best ways. Sam slipped a hand over his lover's and smiled.

"This is perfect," he said. And it was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Danny Michelson

Danny Casanaro was not the kind of boy you took home to meet your mother. Which is probably why, even after their marriage was finalized, Sam never had. As his head rested against the back seat window, watching the ocean crash against the shore in the formidable distance, that was the only thing he could bring himself to think of. Not the weight of the gold ring on his left hand, or the thump of his duffle bag on the seat next to him, only that he had never met the family of the man he was about to embark on a whirlwind adventure with.

He knew, deep down in his heart, why he'd never step foot in the household of the name he now owned. Michelson. Even thinking of it left a deep, lingering foulness on his tongue. On the beach below the freeway, he could make out the colorful tops of umbrellas dotting the white sand. Danny drummed his fingers against his leg, a quiet sigh escaping his lips as signs for the marina drifted past the moving car. I wonder if he had one of those racecar beds. Or a nanny. Slowly, he allowed his gaze to turn the gorgeous man in the front seat, staring pensively at his phone screen. Just the sight of him like that, frozen in time, was enough to send flutters through his heart. There was so much about Sam that he'd never know. So much about his life, his childhood, that would forever be closed to him.

Sam's eyes flickered, sensing the presence of another's gaze on him. His pale pink lips tilted upward into a playful smile, head turning to face his new husband in the seat behind him. "Five more minutes." The words were a promise, the threat of excitement lingering on the upward swell of his voice. "Are you ready, husband?"

Hesitantly, Danny paused, trying not to stare at the approaching blue-green horizon. How could he explain that he wasn't? That the thought of being stranded at sea, miles away from anything that resembled solid ground, filled him with an unimaginable level of dread? In all his life, Danny had never seen the sea and he was content to keep it that way. But it was too late. The deed, like so many others, was done.

He sat forward, reaching out to clasp what little he could touch of Sam's hand. "With you," his words felt scratchy and unromantic in his throat, "I'm ready for anything." It was a lie. A beautiful, aching lie; but anything was better than the truth.

The Prospero was docked at the end of the marina. What should have felt like a thousand miles was reduced to seconds as the sparkling white hull of the ship began to consume what little the front windshield could see. Even with the windows up, Danny could smell the salt wafting in through the vents inside the vehicle. The taste of sand was thick as if he was already buried up to his neck. Perhaps, in a way, he was.

Welcome banners fluttered in the breeze, beckoning their car closer even as the knot in Danny's stomach solidified. Nothing to be done, he tried to tell himself. Nothing to be done. You got what you wanted. Sam's lips had parted into a toothy grin, excitement glinting in his gorgeous eyes, but somehow it wasn't enough to drown out the waves that pounded against the shore. "We're here." Sam's voice was breathless. The car, like everything else, slowed to a stop at his command.

"It was a pleasure driving for you again, Mr. Michelson." Danny could hear the voice of the driver, but it was nothing compared to the screeching seagulls that bombarded the dock or the deafening click of his seatbelt released before he even realized his thumb was on the trigger. "Should I arrange for a companion car to pick you up when you return?"

Sam's voice, his laughter, was the only beacon in the darkness that threatened to swallow him whole. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary." He could feel the warmth of his smile, trickling down Danny's neck like beads of sweat, but his eyes remained transfixed on the laughing, happy passengers boarding ahead of them.

"I'll get the bags." The words spilled out of his throat, pushed out like a bullet as he shoved open the door to the car. Nothing was right. Nothing felt right. Even the heat of the sun overhead was too much, making his blood boil, as he yanked his bag off of the seat beside him. What am I so afraid of? The soft crash of the water as it collided with the sand was enough to make his head throb. Gravel crunched beneath his feet as he turned, pinching the bridge of his nose as he moved around the car to grab his husband's bags from the trunk. The glossy black metal made his fingertips burn, but somehow feeling that was more welcome than looking at the sloping ramp that would lead him up to the ship.

He tugged on the leather handle of Sam's bag, pulling the glossy black suitcase out and into the open air. His own bag looked out of place beside it, lacking the golden monogrammed letters or the special numeric lock needed to open it. Danny stared at it for a moment too long, trying to memorize each curling loop that made up Sam's initials. I will never have this life. Never know this person, who picked out this tacky-ass luggage. That's not my Sam.

A cold palm pressed against his back made him jump, the trunk of the car slamming shut once more as he turned to face his husband. "Hey," there was a concern in the beautiful eyes that he loved so dearly, "is everything okay? You were quiet the whole drive."

"What? No. Yes. I'm fine I..." He sighed, pulling the duffel bag across his shoulder a little tighter. "I'm just ready for it to be the two of us again," Danny confessed, leaning forward until their bodies were pressed together. "Somewhere private, where we can celebrate properly."

Almost immediately, Sam's fingers were in his hair, lips pressed against Danny's cheek in a gentle kiss. With one soft movement, he could feel all the tension leaving his body. I'm safe here. I'm safe with him. Sam hummed, stepping away to let him free once again. "Mm, maybe with some champagne?" he offered, lacing their fingers together.

It was Danny's turn to smile then, closing the distance between them once more to press their lips together. "Perfect," he promised. And then three more words three that shoved the knot in his stomach all the way into his throat. "I love you." It was the deepest confession he could offer, the purest, rawest form of intimacy. Sam accepted it with a smile, his hand reaching upwards to cup the other man's cheek and stroke it gently.

"Let's get going," Sam coaxed, his other hand squeezing Danny's tight. "We've got the world to explore."

With each heavy step he took across the marina, up to the metal ramp and onto the ship itself, the further away the universe seemed to drift. There was only ocean and the gentle rocking of the boat beneath his feet. Nothing to stop him from introducing himself as Danny Michelson, the love of Sam's life. He was free, perhaps, for the first time in a long time, and all that mattered was the other golden ring and the hand that wore it.

This is going to be good, he told himself. This is going to be fun.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jennifer Mizushima

Wherever the wind blows, there lies your fate.

Right. Fate didn't lie in the middle of the Caribbean Sea.

Yet somehow, there she was, standing on the deck of the garish vessel heading far away from solid ground at what could be thirty knots an hour, maybe slower. The saltiness of the ocean that hung in the air seemed musty, like a heavy veil draped over her sanity. She pulled her black baseball cap further down, the brim obscuring the fiery ethereal vision her eyes beheld, and for a moment she relished in that darkness—a realm where no one bothered her, where she was the boss. No rules, no expectations, no excessive nagging from her parents to stop living like a rebel.

Society could be a real bitch sometimes with its expectations of every living being.

No one else seemed to care. Society didn't dictate them to take this vacation; they must have booked this excursion willingly. The big departure shebang ended mere hours ago, yet the vibes still lingered in most of the passengers and crew as they continued to dance and hum like drunken sailors. Watching these strangers rubbing off on each other in this confined place where the ocean is the only open alternative was already enough to make her nauseous—add in the fact that she was here out of due force by her father, and she could already feel her fists clench out of habit.

What good could this vacation grant her, besides the familiarity of the foreign and a chance to rub shoulders with vermin? To her father, it was a chance for her to explore the world. To her, it was a waste of time.

"So why must I go now? I have a whole life ahead of me to do whatever the hell I want!"

"Carpe diem, Jennifer—seize the moment! Life's too short not to have a little bit of fun!"

"Right, and what if that little bit of fun turns into a hellish nightmare?"

Maybe she was being a bit too paranoid, but there wasn't any guarantee that nothing could go wrong on this trip. For all she knew, she could contract a disease, or get abandoned at one of the ports-of-call. Besides, there was nothing to see right now—just a ton of water and clouds, a typical sight anyone could behold online with a simple Google search. This was just killing life as she knew it.

"You shouldn't be alone by yourself at this hour, dear."

A deep gravelly voice suddenly called to her from behind, and she whipped her head around, her baseball cap flying off into the waves. She couldn't care less about her missing hat. There was no reason for old decrepit strangers like him, wearing nothing but a beach towel round his groin and an expression that could make anyone cringe, to approach her.

"Says the man who chose the wrong time to tan," Jennifer quipped, clicking her tongue at his overall ensemble. "Sun's set a while ago."

"Yes, I am aware of that. But I'm not here to tan."

"Hot pool's closed, too."

"Something tells me you don't want to be on this ship."

Now Jennifer blinked, eyelids fluttering in confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

"You have the looks of a skeptic. It's not hard to see," the stranger clarified for her. "You doubt the lessons that foreign atmospheres could teach you. I was just like you at your age—always thought that vacations took away too much of what we could do with our lives. But you should know that the world must be seen and experienced for your life to be worth living. To live your life, you must know what world you're living in."

"Of course I know. I can think for myself, thank you very much."

The stranger, however, shook his head. "I highly doubt it, miss."

He took out from his jacket pocket a small red hardcover book, the name Robinson Crusoe embossed in gold on the cover, and pressed it in her hands.

"This man, he lived on an island for years and managed to sustain himself with only what he could find around him. Of course, he never planned for it to happen, but when it did, he could only do what he could, and thus expanded his knowledge on all that he had all around him. I advise you to do the same, young lady. You'll realize that you only know half of what any full-fledged human is expected to know."

With that, he turned around and departed, leaving her standing on the deck with a stunned expression on her face.

Out of all the books she had ever read, this was the first fictional work she ever held in her hands. Fiction—it was all in the name—just an imagined reality created by words and dialogue and events that never happened. Something about the man and the book he gave her intrigued her, though. What if there was more to reality than all that laid in front of her? Not one internet user could replicate a tale that even an old man like him could tell—or at least tell her of.

She eventually turned away from the deck and, in a dazed trance, headed back to her stateroom.

Dear Diary,

Ship departed today. Just going to cut to the chase here—I'm going to get nothing out of this trip.

Thanks for kicking me out on the waves, dad. Fate doesn't lie in the middle of the ocean with no internet or method of communication beyond this stupid vessel. It doesn't lie with random strangers approaching you and giving you random books. I was working so hard for it, and yet it's taken from me.

Should I meet said fate as I drown, I'll punch him in the face from hell.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tajana Morrigan

DID NOT HAND IN

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bianca Angelica Colombo

Bianca generally preferred to be alone. There were a few exceptions of course- her best friends Jenny and Frank to name a few. At least they treated her like a normal person. Other people usually treated her like she was made of glass, which she definitely was not. Physical contact was always too gentle, and for some reason most tended to speak ridiculously slow when talking to her. For God's sake, she was blind, not deaf! But it seemed that most people, at least all of her dad's friends, lumped all disabilities together. And since they were the people that hung around the house most of the time, Bianca usually stayed in her room and read. Unfortunately, her habits had earned her the title of "anti-social" or "hermit" from her mother's book club. Bianca didn't mind, she didn't really care what those little bitches thought, but her mother simply couldn't bear the thought of having a hermit for a daughter. Consequently, it was decided. Every Sunday after Mass, Bianca would accompany her mother to the mall for some high-quality bonding time. They would often "accidentally" run into single men or members of the book club. Bianca had no doubt that her mother was just trying to show her off, or worse, get her a husband. Fortunately, Bianca was a master of slipping away undetected. It was ridiculously easy to fool her mother, who paid more attention to Bianca's would-be suitors than her own daughter, and Bianca would enjoy the rest of her day relaxing or exploring the city. In fact, it was what she was doing now.

She could get used to Florida. It was nice, the smell of car exhaust didn't follow you everywhere, and it was warm in a way that Manhattan could never be. Here, she was free from all her damned responsibilities and could actually enjoy herself. Too bad it would all be over tomorrow. She would be stuck on some infernal cruise ship, surrounded by creepy old men and retired aunts for god knows how long. Apparently, the main features of the cruise were the colorful ocean life and tropical animals, things Bianca would never be able to enjoy. The only other real attraction was the chance to swim in the Caribbean, something that Hanna would never allow. To be fair, blindness and swimming didn't mix, but they were on a boat in the middle of the ocean, with trained lifeguards at their beck and call. What the hell could go wrong? As it turns out, a lot of things.

So, here she was, enjoying her last day of freedom. The sun was beating down, which was why she'd chosen a bench underneath some trees. Parks were always some of her favorite places. There was so much activity that she could usually tell what was going on, and the kids themselves were generally loud enough to hear from two blocks away. There were two on the swing set, both screaming for their parents to push them higher. One was on the seesaw, crying because he had no one to play with. There were several on the slide, each yelling at the others to get off and "Stop going backwards, that's not fair!" The moms huddled together at the side, gossiping much in the same way her mothers' so called "book club" did. They never really read anything, instead opting to trash talk other mothers, "Did you know, I heard Stacy's son bit the principal again!", brag about their own children, "Jimmy got an A on his art project! I just know that boy's going to be the next Picasso!", or complain about their stupid first-world problems, "I think I'll have to let that gardener go, he keeps coming in the front entrance when I told him to use the back!". In short, they were just a group of unsatisfied bitchy housewives who got together once a week in an attempt to feel better about themselves. It was always fun to listen in at the top of the stairs, and it was even more fun to go to parks like this one and eavesdrop. It wasn't really Bianca's fault that she had good hearing, or that for some reason people tended to forget she existed. Either way, it definitely improved her mood to go to parks like this and listen in to the latest gossip. Of course, someone, usually her bodyguard, would come along to spoil her fun.

"Your father's getting worried." As if on cue, Hanna sat down next to her. Hanna had a gruff voice which seemed to match her gruff disposition. She was grouchy, especially when Bianca ditched her, and apparently thought that "guarding" an eighteen-year old girl was about the same as babysitting. Bianca happened to agree, and the two had a system in place. Hanna would let her run off with whatever bullshit reason she came up with and would follow her from afar until her parents either got worried that she hadn't come home yet, or decided to check up on her. Then, Hanna would retrieve her and the two would head home. The system worked just fine, until Bianca would get tired of being tailed by her glorified babysitter and try to lose her, weaving through large crowds and ducking into random stores until she was sure she wasn't being followed. When that happened, Hanna would leave her alone and spend the rest of the day doing something actually productive, like shopping or trash talking tourists. When Bianca's parents called, Hanna would scout around the nearby parks until she found her target and the fun would be over. "-still have to pack, remember?" Hanna had been talking the whole time, but in true Bianca fashion she'd ignored her completely. "Seriously, we have to go." Bianca sighed, standing and pushing her glasses up from when they'd slipped down to the bridge of her nose.

"Can't we stay for a few more minutes?" She hated the way her voice sounded, whiny, like she was a toddler, but that's exactly how she felt. It was too nice of a day to spend being coddled by her mother and father. "I want to know if Gertrude fired Alonzo." The gossiping mothers stopped abruptly, obviously shocked that Bianca had the nerve to listen in. It wasn't really her fault, the way those ladies were talking she wouldn't be surprised if half the park could hear them.

"No," Hanna growled, grabbing Bianca by the elbow and dragging her away. Bianca would have resisted, she hated people trying to drag her around, but Hanna had done this so often that she knew her efforts would be fruitless. Hanna was strong and stubborn, almost as stubborn as Bianca, and when she wanted you to do something, you did it. Bianca took one last moment to savor the afternoon sun before she turned in the direction the gossips' voices had come from.

"Enjoy your day, ladies. And I hope Harold stops kicking the lunch lady, that won't look good on his academic record." And with that, they were off.

"You should stop eavesdropping on people, it's rude." But there was a smile in Hanna's voice, a kind of unspoken, "keep up the good work". Hanna herself would be considered rude around polite society, but she gave zero shits about what other people thought of her. She was rough and harsh, but under the grouchy exterior was a mischievous little devil just waiting to antagonize stupid people. Especially ableist assholes who treated Bianca like a piece of shit, or even worse, like an invalid. Sure, Hanna hated the idea of babysitting an adult, but she always treated Bianca like a real person who could do things by herself. As long as her parents weren't around. That, combined with the fact that Hanna didn't mind providing movie audio descriptions, was the reason that she'd managed to keep her job for so long. Because even though Bianca hated having a babysitter, she could do a whole lot worse. Bianca smiled too, swerving to avoid what was probably a trash can.

"By the way, your dad wants to review the rules when we get back." Of course. As if this trip wasn't bad enough. Her father's rules were clear, don't forget to call every night, don't go anywhere alone, don't antagonize the other passengers, and don't even think of having some random fling with some random boy. Her family was too important and influential for her to throw it all away on some guy that worked at Chili's. Hanna tightened her grip. "By the way, your mother insists on having a family dinner." Great, just what Bianca needed. A whole hour of being hounded by her father to behave and to be coddled by her weeping mother who would act as if Bianca were moving to Alaska instead of going on a week-long cruise. The way things were looking, she couldn't wait until she was on the ship.

************

She thought that this cruise might not be such a bad thing. That a week without her parents would provide a welcome reprieve from the coddling and the scolding and the overall feeling of being suffocated in her own house. She was wrong.

It wasn't as if the crew or the passengers were bad people, but there was only so much interaction Bianca could take. They'd set sail only a few hours ago, and she was already wishing she was back in New York. At least at home she could hole up in her room when the attention was too much, but her cabin was far too small to comfortably hide in. Most of the passengers ignored her, which was just fine, but some were just too cheery for their own good. Like MJ, a crew member who apparently took it upon herself to act like a real-life version of Pinkie Pie. Or Arnold, a comedian who's every word was tinged with awkwardness. Then there were the rude ones, the ones who forgot she existed. The ones like Willow and Augustus and Adrian. She didn't mind all that much, but the idea of spending a whole week with people who refused to talk to her didn't sound like a whole lot of fun. Bianca had promised herself that she wouldn't slip into old habits while she was here, but it was only an hour in before she holed herself up in her cabin. She stayed there for as long as she could, maybe two or three hours, before Hanna barged in and shoved her out the door, insisting that she should at least act like a human being and introduce herself to the other passengers. She barely had time to grab one of her books and her cane before the door slammed and locked behind her. She'd cautiously made her way up to the deck where people were lounging and enjoying the beautiful view. The hair on the back of her neck raised, a sure sign that people were staring. She didn't have to see to know what a specticle she was.

Bianca made sure to pick an empty table away from the soft chatter. Nothing said "leave me alone" more than sitting away from everyone else. She opened up her book, Hatchet by Gary Paulson, and began to read. It was one of her favorites, simply because of the vivid descriptions of nature. As a native New Yorker, the most nature she'd ever experienced was Central Park, and her trips there were spoaratic at best. Hanna's descriptions, though thorough, were lacking in feeling, the kind that only artists could provide. When Hanna described things such as nature, she always sounded bored, and made Bianca feel like she was missing something.

"That's a big tree," Hanna might say. "It's pretty, I guess. If you like that sort of thing. The leaves are green, not that you would know." Then, she would sigh in frustration and complain. "This is such a waste of time; do you even remember what color looks like? No? Then why am I doing this?" But the way that authors wrote, Bianca felt like she was actually there. She could feel the rough bark of the tree trunk, could hear the birds singing and the wolves howling. Writers gave her the full experience, and that was the real reason she read so much. It made her feel alive and in the moment, like she and the characters switched places and she was the one experiencing it all. In fact, she was so caught up in the book that she nearly jumped when the chair next to hers scraped and someone sat down.

She was a girl, that much Bianca could tell. Her footsteps were light and quiet, almost too quiet. The chair didn't sag or squeak beneath her weight, suggesting that she was young, or at least small. The girl said nothing, opting instead to scoot her chair in with barely a screech of metal against the ground. It was a move that said "I'm here to stay", the kind that only confident or curious people attempted.

"What are you doing?" Definitely a little girl. Curious too, if her tone of voice was anything to go by. She was actually interested in Bianca.

"Reading," she said, turning towards the girl's voice. The girl pondered this for a second and when she spoke again, her voice was slightly cynical.

"Why aren't you looking at your book? And why are you wearing sunglasses. It's nighttime." The girl was right, Bianca had been so absorbed in her book that she hadn't noticed the temperature drop or the lack of chatter. The other passengers must have gone below for dinner. Which meant Hanna was probably looking for her.

"I can't see," Bianca said, taking her glasses off to prove her point. She wore them mainly for protection and because people thought that the way her eyes stared into the distance was creepy. The girl apparently didn't think so as she didn't demand for Bianca to put the glasses back on. Instead, she hummed in acknowledgement and placed her hands on the book.

"How are you reading?" she asked, and the book was tugged out of Bianca's hands. Pages rustled as the girl flipped through them. "There aren't any words." Bianca chuckled, reaching for the book and opening to page three.

"Do you feel the bumps?" she asked, taking the girl's hand and running it over the page. The girl hummed again and Bianca smiled. "It's called Braille, each bump is a letter and I just run my hands along it," she demonstrated with her left hand, "like so." She positioned the girl's hand at the top of the page and ran it across a line. "Once you learn how, you can go really fast." The girl was apparently impressed because she ran her hands across the page in an attempt to copy Bianca. Satisfied, she drew her hands back and picked up Bianca's glasses.

"Here," the girl said, and Bianca held out her hands. The glasses were placed in her right hand and she put them back on, shivering when the cool metal touched her face. The girl had pushed the book back to her by that point and was kicking her legs as she sat. "Is it true you can feels things better than normal people?" Bianca let the use of "normal people" slide, she was talking to a little girl, after all.

"No," she said, closing the book and tucking it under her arm. "I just pay better attention than most people."

"Like how? Show me." This kid certainly was curious.

"Well," Bianca began, listening intently, "I know you're wearing sneakers because of the way you sound when you walk, I know that we're alone because other people tend to be noisy, and...." She paused, sniffing slightly as she waved an arm through the air. "I know it's about to rain because the temperature dropped and it smells like rain." Sure enough, raindrops began falling on her, slow at first but then faster. "We should probably head down below." The ship was rocking faster, the waves getting choppier as they slapped against the boat. The rain was pelting down hard, like little bullets raining from the sky. Bianca shoved her book under her shirt and stood, grabbing her cane and the girl's hand. "Can you help me get there, I'm a little lost." The girl tugged her arm and they were running now, Bianca trying desperately not to stumble or slip.

"We're almost there," the girl said, letting go of Bianca's hand for an instant as she probably reached for the door. And then, the world tilted as Bianca tripped. She slid across the wet deck and hit the side of the ship. She couldn't hear the girl over the sound of the thunder.

"Are you okay?" she yelled, picking herself up as best she could. The ship tilted again, but she grabbed the side of the railing and held on tight. Her book flew onto the deck as she slipped again, her grip on the rails her only defense against the storm. The girl must have found her way inside. Which meant that Bianca was alone. Shit, this definitely wasn't good. Her cane had been ripped out of her hand, her glasses sent flying by the wind as she held on for all she was worth. She was alone, completely and utterly alone. And she knew, with absolute certainty, that she was going to die.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Holly Newman

Waves rippled underneath the boat as the engine stirred up the water. The boat rocked backwards and forwards with the current, causing a sense of calm to rise through my body. Ever since I was little I had been a boat lover. The way the boat would rock from one side to the other had always given me a sense of comfort. It was almost like I was being swayed side by side like a mother would for her child when it would cry out in loneliness. That's why some time ago, I had found myself on the internet booking a cruise to the Caribbean. I yearned to feel the familiar sense of peace that had been brought upon me long ago.

Everything when I was a child had been so black and white. I didn't have a care in the world. I had been to the Caribbean a number of times throughout my childhood, but there was one trip in particular that stuck around. I was turning fourteen and my parents decided it was the perfect birthday present. Extreme for a fourteenth birthday, I know, but that was my parents. Extreme. I also never had any friends to invite to massive birthday parties either, so at least sending me on a boat trip to the Caribbean compensated for that and masked how lonely I was for the time being. Maybe that was why I had felt compelled to book a trip to the Caribbean. Maybe I was truly coming to get rid of the loneliness that never quite left me. I had dug my own hole, though, with nobody else but me to blame.

That birthday though was probably the best birthday I've ever had. I woke up that morning to the harsh rocking of the boat and my brothers cheeky grin covering my whole face.

"Morning sis. Happy birthday!" He had said once my eyes flickered open. I remember just grinning at him from ear to ear. That day the two of us spent the day together just wondering the ship while our parents relaxed by the pool on the cruise ship. I had spent that whole day laughing as we chased each other around, the guards around the boat yelling for us to quit it every couple of minutes. After we'd had enough of the guards yelling at us, we stopped and got ice-cream together. It may not have been the extravagant cake my parents would always make for my birthday's that would involve massive candles, and multiple layers, but it was special. Cake was just cake, no matter how tall or how many cool things were stuck onto it. The ice-cream, however, while it was just cookies and cream with chocolate topping, it was given to me by the tall man who served us with the cute brown locks. He had smiled at me and told me that that was his favourite ice-cream too.

That was the last time I went on a holiday with my family, because after that day my parents ended up travelling a tonne for work and there was no way they would ever just go ahead and book an expensive holiday just for my brother and I's entertainment no matter how much we had begged. We were just being selfish though. There were not many other kids around us who could even have afforded a holiday to the Caribbean in the first place, let alone for like the fifth time without parental supervision. We were selfish and had no idea that the concept of money existed. That came from our family having enough money that we never had to question why we got so many nice things.

The increased rocking of the boat, and the goosebumps that laced my bare skin interrupted my thoughts. A shiver ran down my spine. Beside the boat, the once calm waves rippled further creating the waves to cross paths in a splash of white foam. The clouds ahead were beginning to disappear and were being covered by angry grey clouds that looked ready to burst. I crossed my arms over my chest tightly, the goosebumps remaining on my skin. By the look of the waves and the sky, it was going to storm. I had never actually experienced a storm while on a boat before and I was glad for it as I believed it was easier to create a fake reality for yourself when the weather was perfect, almost like an illusion.

I let the grip go that I had on the grey railing and stepped backwards, attempting to look at the picture in front of me from a wider view. I was unsure how stepping back would change anything, but I did it anyway. The crashing waves created a calming splash noise as the waves grew inside and the wind picked up. The clouds in the sky grumbled with anticipation of bursting. I let out a deep sigh and turned away from the scene that was about to unfold in front of me. I had read on the internet what was best to do if a storm was brewing while you were on a boat, as I had wanted to be prepared in case, and I thought now might be a good time to get under cover and away from the edge of the boat where waves could potentially make their way onto the edges of the cruise ship with an immense force that could knock you off your feet.

I never actually thought I would see the day where a storm would be brewing above my cruise ship and I was slightly disappointed that one had begun to brew overhead. I had wanted to stand by the railing until unset just to watch it. The sunsets while on a boat were always phenomenal. The water above the sky would create this clear sense of light above it where there would always bee arrays of blues, pinks, oranges and purples appear in the sky to form somewhat of a mirage that would have you taking hundreds of photos just to save it in your memory bank forever. But, there would always be tomorrow, and standing at the side of a boat watching a storm begin was not my idea of fun. It was time for an early dinner anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Enrique Rivera

The moon hangs in the sky up above, brilliantly bright and shining down on the empty darkness below. It reflects off inky blackness, lapping silently as a single boat pushes forward. Ripples spread out as they distort the serene calm that rests upon the surface with its steady rising and falling, almost as if the Earth beneath was already asleep, snoring out a steady rhythm of up and down, up and down. White water touches the tips of the waves for only a moment before being pushed deep beneath the surface.

A thick fog curls up, disturbing the scene as it spills from one of the channels deep within the cruise ship Prospero. Halfway up it is met by a much smaller stream, this one a thicker cloud, laced with the telltale tang of tobacco. The source is a pair of chapped lips, pressed against a fresh, cheap cigarette. The box tucked into the back pocket of the smoker—half hidden beneath a shabby stuffed white shirttail—proclaims one of the few brands sold on ship, signaling his desperation. The strength is weak, the price marked up for the clueless passengers desperate to get a fix.

With a flick of his wrist, the smoker sends the crushed, burnt end of the cigarette to break off. It spirals down impossibly quick, ash falling past the cold, metal railing his arms are draped over and below the portholes lining the side of the ship. A keen wind spikes up almost sudden as it takes the smell of tobacco and replaces it with the sharp sea salt smell distinct to the open ocean. Calm washes over the man's shoulders hidden beneath a black, wrinkled vest. This is what I needed. The thought is sweet, echoed by another drag of the cigarette clutched between his frigid fingers, and he lowers his arm to allow the stiff breeze to grace his already frozen cheeks. A sharp gust stings his skin, turning it a shade redder as he watches the horizon line beyond. It is almost indistinct between the sky and the sea, both too deep and dark in color to be separated by anything other than a poorly educated guess on where one stops and the second begins.

From behind him, a creak echoes out onto the deck. It disturbs the peaceful lapping of waves below and takes with it the relaxed stance of the man leaning over the railing. Soft, yellow light brushes against his stiffened shoulders, soon obscured by a thin shadow. "Eric!" The shout bunches the nerves in his back and presses against his rib cage with a painful reminder. "You're needed back here!"

I could stay out here. Tightening his fingers around the thin paper tube, he brings the tip to his lips again. Finish this one and maybe another. Smoke is inhaled sharply, swirling on his tongue with its bitter taste as it permeates his lungs. That'd be nice. With a deep exhale, Enrique Rivera turns just enough to illuminate the right side of his face as he glances over his shoulder. Brown hair, now whipped into a frenzy falls in scattered strands across his tawny skin. The warmth from inside lightens his eyes, bringing them to pleasant attention. A soft smile curls onto his lips and he pulls them back enough to allow the slightest glimpse of teeth.

"Thanks, Charmaine, I'll only be a minute." Softness slides off his tongue as smooth as a polished stone. He is given a warm smile in response and a pang in his chest as they exchange a well-known look. Something between gratitude and sorrow is conveyed—and then it is gone, replaced with a fleeting look and the sharp closing of a metal door.

With a definitive movement, the glint of a red ember is flicked off of the side of the balcony and arches soundlessly into the sea below. Deep brown eyes watch the movement until they can no longer see the speck. Then, with smooth, tired movements, Enrique hauls himself off the railing and stretches with his arms crossed over his back. A soft pop comes from his spine as his feet raise onto their tiptoes and his fingers flex toward the dark sky above. One last sigh, no longer covered by the exhale of smoke escapes his lips, and he drops back to the deck gracefully.

Sounds of the party inside slip through the cracks the moment Enrique wedges his fingers between the door and the wall. They are fresh voices, lively and excited if not a bit quiet at the start of this new voyage. As his feet cross the threshold and carry him toward the bar, Enrique is quick to catch himself up to speed. His hands reflexively stroke through his messy hair, pulling it back into an acceptable, if not overly frizzy, shape. They dive to his name tag to pull the printed, shortened name of "Eric" back into a straightened position, and make sure to tuck the package in his back pocket further from sight.

At the bar stands an impatient looking man, his eyes surveying the dancing room of sorts as Enrique steps past the swinging wooden panel separating the slim backside of the bar from the rest of the room. Often, the bartender would come to recognize the regular passengers over the course of the trip, but the first few nights were always the hardest. Enrique still half expected the Walkers from the cruise before to walk up or that sweet pair of teenagers from the one before that. He'd spent the last three weeks out on the water and this was far from the first night he'd worked. Still, there is something expected from the white suit passenger. He has the slightest hint of wrinkles pulling at the edges of his eyes and creasing his forehead that give away his age. Grey peppers his hair and has leached into his green eyes, but he seems to be trying to pull it off in a classic distinguished sort of why.

Perhaps that's why it is no surprise to Enrique when a gold cruise card is slid across the table without so much as a glimpse of eye contact before he can open his mouth. "An old fashioned, would you?" The passenger's tone is an iced brick, though not entirely unpleasant.

The young man hardly bothers to look at the card as he slides through the small machine to his left. A pleasant beep sounds, and sets it back on the counter before getting to work. There is something sweet about the smell of simple syrup and alcohol mixing that Enrique had always been a fan of. Imagine if this is where I thought I would be now. The thought is almost funny as he uncaps the bourbon from the shelf behind him and pours an estimated ounce into the glass before dropping a cherry in it with the other hand.

Placing the drink on the counter, Enrique offers a perfected smile to the man waiting. "Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?"

Turning, the man picks up the drink and takes a tentative sip. His eyes glance over the top of the cup at Enrique. It's clear that this is the first time he's done as much, for when the man turns his eyes widen ever so slightly, pupils taking a moment longer than necessary to assess the crew member. "No, that'll be fine." His voice has turned sweeter, a hint of interest stirring the edge of his voice, something the young man was more than familiar with. "You know, my wife and I are on this cruise for business." There's an inflection in his tone, as if he is subconsciously trying to will Enrique into being impressed.

The bartender simply smiles wider, pushing at his own cheeks until it borders on unnatural. "That's nice to hear, sir." He can all but hear the boredom in his own voice. It's been getting harder lately, to act interested, to flirt. Too much is bordering on the back of his mind.

"What are you?" The question catches Enrique by surprise, but only for a moment as he watches the older man's eyes take him at an uncomfortable pace. "Mexican?"

"Cuban," he corrects, hands fiddling with the buttons on his long sleeves. Of course. It's not the first time nor certainly the last the question will crop up, but it leaves a bitterness on his tongue.

"Good to hear." The response is sandpaper against his back, an itch sprouting between his shoulder blades as if there was a potentially wrong answer to the question in the first place.

The glass between them is finished and pushed toward Enrique again. He gets to work refilling it, quickly taking the time to change the subject as his back is turned. "So, where is your wife this evening? You didn't both want to attend the mixer?" It is casual, simple talk. The answers always blend together.

A smirk is given when he returns, green eyes darting up from his backside to his face. "No, she is already trying the spa out I believe." A subtle purr plays into his voice. "Which means my room is currently empty."

The bartender laughs. He raises an eyebrow and asks, "Is that so?"

The rest of the night passes similarly; middle-aged men, older women, teenagers just lapsed into the gap between child and adult, all sorts saunter up to the bar, waving drink bracelets or occasionally attempting to escape the sweaty, dimly lit dance floor without wanting to sit on the cheap metal chairs lining tables that encircle the space. Some chat, most flirt, and Charmaine passes by every so often to administer a reassuring pat on the arm or a less than charming tale of handsy guest or seasick first-timer.

At the end of it all, Enrique finds himself slumped against the bar, staring out at the spotless dining hall. The time is well past midnight—that he knows without the aid of a clock. Cleaning products and sanitizer assault his nose, searing away what's left of his senses painfully. A few other waiters and servers pass by, exchanging tired smiles and glances, well-meaning words that they'll see each other tomorrow. It isn't until the last one leaves that Enrique pushes himself back to stand on his aching feet and grabs a bottle of whiskey from one of the shelves. The cap screws off quickly, pinched between his thumb and pointer finger as he tilts a quick shot into his mouth. The sting is painful, enough to raise a twinge in his lungs and widen his eyes for the walk home.

Fingers use the wall, walking him hand over hand back to his cabin. All the social energy has already drained from his body, tugging him desperately towards bed as the rocking of the floor beneath his feet threatens to send him off balance. You're almost home, I promise. Numbered doors in the crews corridor flash steadily by his eyes until he arrives at one marked 017. With warm fingers, he reaches into the inside of his pocket and clumsily pulls out a key card. Upon receiving the green light, he yanks the handle and stumbles inside.

Warmth kisses the air, the heater turned up high inside the room. It smells strongly of the bottle of Febreze sitting beside the light switch. Ignoring the thick rush of tropical glade, Enrique kicks off his shoes by the door, aiming them as near to the fridge as he manages to bother. His fingers work off the vest and wrangle the shirt holding him hostage onto the floor near the hamper in a flurry of movements. Tired, sweaty fingers pinch the bridge of his nose before reaching for the bowl by the door. Inside of it sit two wedding rings.

Enrique reaches for the silver one, a single band of gold wrapping around its center. Even in the dark he can feel the difference between their sizes, his own several times smaller than the other left in the bowl. His feet draw him to the edge of the full bed that takes up the majority of the room, and he twists to fall onto it on his back. Cold metal kisses his finger to be worn just as rough cotton scratches against his bare shoulders. The moment is filled with sound, the creak of the boards beneath the mattress, the lengthy sigh from soft lips, and the collapse of sheets that crinkle and slip from the bed onto the floor. The next is silent. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ceto Veile

DID NOT HAND IN