An individual is one that exists as a distinct entity. Individuality is the quality that makes a person different from other people. If no man is an island, then what is an island populated by one man, multitudes of one man?

The magical joys of youth ... the infinite sadness of realization ...

Coming of age can be a frightening time. Fairing for oneself in the big bad world with little or seemingly no support at all. Life, and all it entails, can be the oddest of all oddities. Events beyond our control can affect us in ways we cannot imagine. It can strain the very nature of reality. An alternate can be created without our direct knowledge. We may even go as far as create an alternate for ourselves, mirroring the day to day in a not so everyday way.

We can live in the here and now or we can live in the alternate or even co-exist in both simultaneously. So, how strange can it really be when a moment throws us to somewhere completely unexpected? Like how a simple smile can turn the dullest corner of bleakness into the brightest of days. People are different, people are the same. One thing which makes us all the same is that we each have a story to tell. There is this one story, a story of an island ...

***

On this one particular, peculiar island, an island so remote that the rest of the world knows nothing of its existence. It is populated by as many as one and by as few a thousand with every inhabitant being named simply as Terrance. Some may, at times, go by a variation of the name such as Terry, Ter, or even to extremes such as Lance or Andy, with the latter names being something more of a rarity, but each man is, at heart, named Terrance. And the reason for variation ...?

Each man is the mirror image of the next ... same weathered jawline, same grizzled beard, same suspicious squint that peers out across the shrinking fields. Yet, beneath their identical surfaces, they serve distinct roles. One Terrance tends to the sick in the modest wooden clinic, another coaxes withered crops from the stubborn earth, while yet another offers solace and sermons in a makeshift chapel whose bell is little more than an empty paint can.

Life in general on Terrance Island, as it is, was and forever will be known, sure what else would it be known as? ... has always been simple, even harmoniously so in its eerie uniformity. Decisions arose from consensus or, failing that, a game of chance involving seashells and animal droppings ... the island's battered aloof die and are buried in a separate location as a reminder of communal strength versus singular weakness.

It is not illegal to live alone or apart from the others, it's seen more as if you are not contributing then you are unfairly detracting. Still, nothing lasts forever or even goes completely to plan.

Community wholly full and connected is best, preferable to the hermetic though in itself is not completely infallible. This place, it is not and never has been paradise though as it goes, it is damn close. Ignorance sometimes really is ... bliss.

And then the inevitable comes ... the island is changing: the catch from the sea grows meager, the soil yields less each year, and the rain barrels stand emptier with every season. Each and every Terrance knows what this means. Soon, they will have to leave the only home they've ever known for to seek shelter and sustenance elsewhere..

There is, however, another problem. Leadership was never needed here, not when every voice sounded the same and no Terrence ever stood taller than the rest. But now, someone must coordinate their exodus. There is a need for a Terrance who can plan, inspire, and steer the others into an uncertain future. Yet, among all their numbers, not one Terrance has ever stepped forward as a leader.

It is not in their make-up. The ability to lead is as much an unknown as what lies beyond the waters which surround the island. The Terrance's gather nightly around the dying embers of their Eternal Fire, debating, arguing, and then lapsing into a tense, identical silence, all wondering: who among them will become the first Terrance to lead? The fire once strong and vibrant has dwindled and a point soon comes when it no longer burns. It had always burned. Surely this is a sign. A departure is necessary, a departure to where? Is it already too late?

What follows is the story of Terrance, the island of many men named Terrance, as they between them attempt to find the one who will step up and become their saviour, if such a thing is at all a possibility ...

***

On a bright day when all things were well, as they had been all through the island's illustrious history, a Terrance could stroll through any inhabited zone with a smile on his face and greet others as he did so. He could greet these others and be greeted right back with only one word ever spoken and that would be their names being spoken as that greeting. One greeting of 'Terrence' being returned with a simple 'Terrance' and this would never grow old no matter how often it occurred.

Yeah, things changed, so on a windswept evening, weather matching a dulled mood and a communal feeling of despair, the chapel ... being that a little more than four leaning planks accompanied by the faltering echo of hope ... fills with the shuffling, beard-stroking presence of the many who all indeed are Terrance.

Rows of identical faces glimmer in the candlelight, each pair of eyes searching for comfort in the ritual, in the words that have always soothed the slow ache of days. This building is small and indeed can hold but a few compared to the prior gatherings at the Eternal Fire, which is indeed now gone. That was outdoors, rain and wind is so tough and frequent now forcing to see such a moment come inside. Each Terrence here is a representative for so many more and word of what occurs here will spread with great haste.

The Terrance at the front, who by role and not by faith calls himself the preacher, stands behind a driftwood crate and clears his throat. He is an elder, one of but a few as it is the next generation after his which make up the larger portion of the general populous. It is clear that the pastor is thrown, nervous and unsure. Times have gotten tough.

He speaks of the great Terrance above, the Terrance who shaped to the island from mist and salt, who set the sun on its arc and taught the earliest men of his name the secrets of netting fish and coaxing beans from tired loam. The sermon is familiar, a litany of repetition anchoring them to a past when every answer came easy and the world ... even their own world ... spun on predictability.

But tonight, a restlessness stirs beneath the surface. Murmurs ripple through the congregation, their voices matching in timbre and tension. Many in attendance cast sidelong glances, as if expecting that somewhere in these rows, one among them might suddenly radiate authority, might take the weight of the future onto shoulders no broader than his neighbour's. The preacher's words falter, and for a heartbeat, the only sound is the tap of rain on the sagging roof.

'We wait for a sign from the great Terrance above,' the preacher intones, voice quavering, not with piety, but with uncertainty. 'But what if the sign is already among us? Our fire, once thought to be eternal, now ceases to be. I truly believe that when we work as a community then the collective wisdom of all our community members is a lot greater than one person working alone. This is how it has always been to the point that those seeking to work alone are shunned. Opinion has been changing recently but. ... what if the answer is not a single Terrance, but each and every Terrance together?'

A silence thicker than storm clouds settles. There is no precedent, no tradition to draw from, only the shared fear that sameness, once their strength, is now the very thing holding them captive. Every Terrence together has always been the way, so can a singular Terrence be an answer? Outside, the wind rattles the chapel's walls, the world itself seeming impatient for a decision.

Inside, the many sits, identical hands folded over identical knees, wrestling with the unfamiliar burden of choosing not just how to live, but how to lead. One man speaks ...

'Pastor ... your role with us, by very nature, is one closest among all that is ... one, would it not be wise to think of you as our shepherd? A shepherd leads, singularly, does he not?'

'Not ...' is the more immediate response. '... I provide guidance of soul, of spirit, I try to enhance the sense of community, provide lift of the mind. I am a man of peace and not a strategist of battle or war.'

'But Pastor, we are not going to war ...' speaks he who made the inquiry of the Pastor.

'We may as well be for if we remain here, it is likely we all will meet our end long before that with which we would hope.'

'So, what are you saying? Is it a singular Terrence we need, or is it many?'

'I don't have all the answers, I may not have any, ... how about you good sir? You had the courage to stand and make a friendly suggestion. Could you not do the same in kind, and step up, be the one with whom it would seem we so desperately seek?'

'Mm ... mm ... ma ... me? But I am no more than a humble barber, a groomsman who keeps all hair uniform. I do no more, I do no less. If I may be so bold too, to inquire as to what is being done about our guest?'

'As you well know ...' says the pastor sounding stronger and more determined now than at any other point up to now, '... we do have more pressing matters. A more pressing matter is whether or not we seek out the ancient one.'

'You yourself are an elder, a wise man by very nature, if you suggest we seek the guidance of one much more senior than you, well this is what we must do ... though the ancient one ... he is but a myth, even if he does exist ... we would not know where to begin searching for him.'

'The sooner such begins, the quicker he may be found ...'

Outside, the weather is worsening, the likes of which has never been seen before to such levels, until recently that is. With their physical similarities and individual differences, it is clear what one and all here are thinking. Shelter is needed, this place of would-be worship or more so a place of counsel is not the place to seek such shelter. Home is where they each should really be.

As it stands, whom among them have strongholds worthy of surviving serious storm when the most severe storm of the past consisted of no more than a ten-minute downpour with winds barely strong enough to blow away the lightest of straw hats? Storms of late, and the one just barely begun ...