Island Fiction Novels & Stories

replied Gerald as he thought about Jobson and the old man’s ability to bend natural forces to their wills… Regardless, upon hearing Master Ghost’s groan after he resumed reading for a while, Gerald—who had a bad feeling about that—was prompted to ask, “…Is something the matter?” “…Well… According to the book, Yearning Island is a magical place that was formed by the essence of heaven and earth. With that in mind, to prevent others from easily locating it, the Seadom tribe had placed the sole method to get to Yearning Island on the island that they moved to after being kicked out of their home. In other words, you’ll have to find the island that the Seadom tribe moved to in order to even remo

City Island was a small, curious oasis, a part of the Brons from a municipal perspective, but geo-culturally, quite a closer to Fantasy Island, a speck of land that led visitors ea bit s to free associate about other places and other times because it as so unlike the city on the other sideo of the causeway. To the Siwanoy Indians, the island had been for centuries afertile fishing and oyster ground, to the European settlers, a ship-building and maritime center, to the current residents, a middle-class enclave of modest, single-family houses mixed with fine Victorian sea-farers mansions, its coastline dotted with yacht clubs for wealthy off-islanders. With a rabbit-

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean" She looked up, a small smile on her lips. "It is all right. I understand what you meant. And this is certainly an interesting book. This woman finds herself stranded on an island after her ship breaks apart on the rocks. She swims to shore but is utterly alone until she spies a figure on a distant hill" "Aw You found out my secret." He recognized the book. It was called Lady Isabelle and the Lord of the Dark Isle. It was one of L. R. Gloucester's works, a rather torrid Gothic novel.

Flashback Chalk-white rocks jutted out of glass-clear water, sharp as the teeth of some sleeping sea god. The little island was almost deserted, save for a few twisted pines and a lone wooden shack in the distance, probably owned by a retired fisherman who’d traded storms for seagulls. Isola del Gallo. A name that sounded like either the title of an Italian erotic novel or the setting of an upscale murder. In reality, it was prettier than both.

It did not feel at home not only because Islandia was gloomy, nor that the beautiful flowers in the garden were withered, nor because the waterfalls, streams and fountains were filled with filthy waters, nor because the sun and the sky weren’t all that shiny anymore nor because the weather wasn’t all that gay no more… It did not feel at home because he couldn’t recognize anyone he knew, Islandia was in complete ruin. There were bodies of dragons and humans running into thousands littered about showing different levels of decomposition. Most of the cadavers were mutilated and unrecognizable, some had become footstools for others as they moved about.

Ordinary days were the most important. She sat in a small café near the Weser. There was a cup of coffee in front of her. In addition, a notebook. A thick notebook. Almost completely described. Page by page. Memory for memory. Stories. Your story. The history of the island. The eye. The Dreamer. The origin. Sometimes she hardly believed in it. And that's why she wrote everything up. Not that the world believed it. So she didn't forget. The café's door opened.

“So. . . Mike, I was just wondering. Did Grandma and Grandpa mentioned the name of that island?” “Mystique Island.” He clears his throat before he continued and spoke using a British accent, “A mysterious island discovered by Grandma Fuchsia after married to Grandpa Martes. They said the island was made by enchanted people called ‘engkanto’ whom Grandma Fuchsia are friends with. She said it’s a portal-island to the ocean enchanted world or ‘encantadia ng karagatan’. The island can only be seen during Ber Months until the end of the summer.” “Uhmm. . . . What’s wrong with your voice?”What’s wrong wrong with your voice?”

The "Island" facility was a masterpiece of architectural isolation. Situated on a jagged outcrop in the Riau Archipelago, it was a place where the tropical sun felt cold. The walls were made of salt-resistant reinforced concrete, and the air was filtered through a dozen layers of charcoal and HEPA membranes. Inside, in a suite that looked more like a minimalist gallery than a cell, Catherine Thorne sat by a window that overlooked a sea she was forbidden to touch.

Red He tells me about the island in pieces over three evenings. Not the island as it is now, the administration and the rotations and the facility I have been mapping for twenty-six weeks. The island as it was before he came to it and the specific path that brought him here from wherever he was before, which is a path I have been trying to construct from the available fragments and which has been assembling itself across the past ten days with the slow resolution of a picture developing in a darkroom.

“I’ve never smelled the like.” “When I was young,” Hod replied. “There was an island in the sea, the tallest mountain of which was volcanic and would regularly fill the sky with smoke and occasionally vomit red liquid fire down its side. When it did so, it smelled like this. Molten rock, and things from deep within the crust of the world which was never intended to see the surface.” “I have never seen such an island,” Thaelen was surprised. “No, it disappeared,” Hod said. “It happens on occasion. The sea takes it back, or perhaps the mountain melted the island into the water. It no longer exists, either way.”