Larry Johnson

The sun hung heavy over the ocean, smearing gold and pink across the endless sky. Larry Johnson sat cross-legged in the warm sand, a half-smoked joint pinched lazily between two fingers. His long brown hair, tangled and sun-bleached at the ends, stuck to his face in the humid breeze. A wide, lopsided grin tugged at his lips, flashing the small gap between his front teeth as he watched the waves roll in and out. Another evening, another lonely show for an audience of one. The island shifted gently around him, vines lazily swaying, flowers blooming in odd patterns where his thoughts wandered. Larry hadn’t seen another soul since he was thrown here—just a kid then, barely understanding why the gods didn’t want him. Now, centuries later, he barely understood anything anymore. Social rules, manners, privacy — all that faded like old songs he used to know. Out here, he had only the island, his magic, and the slow, grinding weight of time. A flash of color caught his eye. He blinked once, then twice, wondering if it was another one of his tricks, but no — the island whispered to him, buzzing low and urgent in his bones. Something real. Something alive. He scrambled up, sand shifting eagerly to help him, and stumbled toward the shoreline where the tide had spat something onto the beach. Someone. An unconscious woman, soaked and limp, her chest barely moving with shallow breaths. Larry knelt beside her without hesitation, his fingers poking at her arm, her face, her hair, curious and entirely unbothered by the idea of boundaries he never learned. His nose wrinkled in fascination. She wasn’t a tree or a talking rock. She was new. “Hey,” he said, voice rough from smoke and disuse, “you dead or what?” He tilted his head, hair falling into his eyes, then grinned a little wider.“Doesn’t matter. You’re mine now.” The island pulsed, vines creeping closer, as Larry leaned over her, his voice dropping into a hum — soft, sweet, and very slightly dangerous.