The Isle of No More

a short story

This week’s short story is dedicated to David Lynch, an artist whose work I deeply love and who sadly passed away last week.

The Isle of No More

Eoin hadn’t noticed when the first island moved. Or perhaps it had always been closer, and he’d simply stopped paying attention. After thirty-seven years as the keeper of the beacon at Bridge Point, the world beyond the lighthouse—the archipelago of jagged islands and the expanse of overcast, rolling sea—had become as fixed in his mind as the weather-worn rocks under his boots. That morning, however, as he scanned the horizon for passing ships, something caught his eye.

The smallest island in the chain, barely more than a mound of stones and grass, was sitting much closer than he remembered. Its shoreline, blackened by seaweed and rough surf, appeared almost reachable, as though the sea had carried it to his doorstep overnight. He squinted, gripping the rail of the balcony that encircled the lighthouse. For a moment, he doubted himself. Was it possible the tides had shifted? Could the current have dragged it here?

“Trick of the light,” he muttered, turning back inside.

The kettle whistled faintly in the corner, its steam curling against the low ceiling of the kitchen. Eoin set his mug on the weathered wooden table and stood, the familiar stiffness in his knees greeting him as he stretched. The gulls had begun their morning calls, harsh and insistent as they circled the lighthouse’s tower. Through the kitchen’s small open window, their cries mingled with the sound of the waves breaking against the rocks below.

His mornings were always the same. Eoin’s hands moved with practiced ease as he poured his tea, stirred in a splash of milk, and placed the red kettle back on the stove. He glanced at the clock above the door—a gift from Moira, long ago—its chipped frame and gently ticking hands a familiar comfort. Six thirty-two. The same as always.

Outside, the gulls screamed louder, their cries pulling his eyes toward the balcony door. He stepped out into the crisp morning air, the metallic clank of the balcony complaining under his boots. The horizon stretched before him, gray and endless, the jagged silhouettes of the archipelago faintly visible through the low-hanging mist. He held his mug close, letting the warmth seep into his palms as he looked out to the water.

The gulls swirled above, their white wings stark against the pale sky. One broke from the flock, diving sharply toward the rocks below. Eoin followed its descent, his gaze catching on the cluster of tide pools scattered at the base of the lighthouse. A small, dark shape moved within one of the pools, a flash of silver catching the light. A fish, stranded by the receding tide.

Setting his mug on the balcony rail, Eoin descended the narrow spiral staircase, his boots clacking against the worn steps. He picked up the small bucket tied to a large stone at the base of the lighthouse and stepped out onto the rocks. He moved carefully, his steps cautious on the uneven surface, until he reached the tide pool.

The fish flailed weakly, its silvery scales gleaming in the early light. Eoin knelt beside the pool, lowering the bucket into the water. His hands, rough from decades of work, moved gently as he scooped the fish into the bucket. It flipped and thrashed, but he held it steady, murmuring softly as if to calm it. “All right, now.”

He carried the bucket to the edge of the rocks, where the sea lapped gently against the shore. Kneeling again, he tipped the bucket, letting the fish slide into the water. It lingered, suspended in the shallow waves. He swore it looked at him before darting away into the deeper sea. Eoin watched it go.

He stood, the bucket swinging lightly at his side as he made his way back to the lighthouse. The sun was higher now, its soft light breaking through the clouds. He paused at the base of the tower, drawn once more to the horizon. He looked at the smallest island again, which appeared much closer than before. He shook his head, trying to dismiss the unease creeping into his thoughts.

Inside, the familiar scent of tea and salt lingered in the air. Eoin rinsed the bucket in the sink, setting it to dry beside the stack of chipped plates and mismatched cups. He reached for his logbook, its leather cover worn soft with age, and flipped to the next empty page. The pen in his hand felt steady, though his mind wandered as he recorded the morning’s weather—mild winds, low visibility, no passing ships.

Eoin closed the logbook with a quiet sigh, the monotony of routine settling over him once more. He poured another cup of tea and returned to the balcony, the mug warming him as he gazed out at the sea.

As he stood there, the sound of voices carried over the water. Eoin turned to see a fishing boat bobbing in the distance, its hull painted a cheerful blue that stood out against the gloomy expanse of the sea. The crew—young men, barely older than boys—waved enthusiastically as they approached.

“Hello there, Eoin!” one of them called, his voice bright and carrying easily over the waves.

Another held up a hand in greeting, his face splitting into a grin. “Treach’rous weather these last few weeks! A blessing to see your light shining clear.”

Eoin raised a hand in return, smiling faintly. “Morning,” he replied, his voice rasping slightly with disuse. He hadn’t spoken to anyone face-to-face in days, but the fishermen’s cheer was contagious.

“Caught a good haul today,” the first man continued, gesturing to the net piled high at the boat’s stern.

“Glad to hear it,” Eoin said simply.

He stayed on the balcony, watching as the blue hull grew smaller and smaller, its vivid color gradually swallowed up and up and up by the pale expanse of water and fog, the sea an endless hunger.

His thoughts kept drifting back to the island, and so curiosity finally got the better of him. He climbed into the small dinghy tied to the dock and rowed out to it, the oars creaking loudly in their locks. The water was calm, unusually so, and the distance that had once seemed vast shrank quickly as he rowed. Within minutes, the boat scraped against the shore.

As Eoin stepped onto the wet stones, his boot landed on something solid. He looked down to find a rusted toy boat half-buried in the sand. His stomach sank. It was impossible, but there it was: the red chipped paint, the tiny mast broken, the name “Eamon” scrawled in his own childish handwriting along the hull. He hadn’t seen this toy since he was seven years old, the day his father drowned.

Eoin’s hands trembled as he picked up the boat. His father had taken him fishing in their skiff, ignoring the storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Eoin had begged him to turn back, but his father had laughed, brushing off the warning. When the storm hit, it was fast and violent, capsizing their small boat in minutes. Eoin had clung to a piece of driftwood, barely surviving the freezing waves. His father had not been so lucky.

He ran his fingers over the faded letters. He’d named it after his father, an innocent act of hero worship before the storm turned his memories of the man into something darker. The storm had been merciless, and though he’d tried to recall his father’s face over the years, it had become blurred, replaced by the sound of rushing water and the throbbing pain of his own small hands clutching the driftwood.

Eoin shoved the boat into his coat pocket and turned back to the dinghy. As he made his way back each stroke of the oars felt heavier, as though the sea itself resisted his return to the lighthouse.

That night, as he lay in bed, the wind howled around the lighthouse, and Eoin’s dreams were filled with visions of the toy boat. He saw it bobbing in the waves, his father’s voice calling to him from somewhere just out of sight. He woke drenched in sweat, the sound of his father’s cries still echoing in his ears. He lit the lamp by his bedside and stared at the toy boat, now sitting on his desk, as if it might speak to him and explain its return.

The second island moved three days later. This one was larger, covered in tufts of grass and a cluster of scraggly trees that had always reminded Eoin of hands clawing at the sky. He noticed it during his morning patrol, the island’s silhouette sharper, closer. He felt a sickening sense of deja vu as he rowed out to investigate.

This time, it was a pair of old glasses he found nestled among the rocks. The frames were cracked, one lens missing. Eoin recognized them instantly. They had belonged to Moira, his wife.

Moira had been the only person who had ever coaxed Eoin out of his self-imposed exile. They had met in town, her laughter cutting through the haze of his guilt-ridden solitude like sunlight through fog. She had been vibrant, full of life, and entirely undeserving of the grief he had brought her. Their marriage had been brief but happy—until the miscarriage. One day, all that remained was a note on the kitchen table. She was out of his life, leaving behind only a pair of glasses he’d found under the bed.

Now the lenses, even cracked, seemed to catch the faint light in a way that made them sparkle. He sat down on the stones, holding them in his lap, and briefly, he could hear her voice again—that teasing lilt when she would scold him for his stubbornness.

“You’ve got to let go of the past, love,” she’d said once, brushing her hand through his hair.

The irony wasn’t lost on him now. He couldn’t even remember what she’d been wearing that day, only the warmth of her hand and the faint scent of lavender.

There were whispers in the wind that night, and as he sat by the lighthouse window, glasses in hand, he began to wonder if he was losing his mind.

Over the next few weeks, the islands continued to shift. Each time, they brought with them another fragment of Eoin’s life: a broken compass from his days as a sailor, a dog-eared book of poetry Moira had loved, a child’s drawing he didn’t remember making. The objects were always waiting for him, perfectly preserved, as though the sea itself had been guarding them.

At night, the islands hummed. The sound was low and deep, vibrating through the lighthouse walls and into Eoin’s bones. It kept him awake, the whispers of the past growing louder with each passing day. He began to hear voices in the wind: Moira calling his name, his father’s screams, the cries of his old crewmates from the night of the storm.

The mornings became a blur of exhaustion and dread. Each time he stepped onto an island, he felt the cost of its gifts more acutely, as though they were draining him of something vital. He began keeping the objects in a small chest by his bedside, unable to bring himself to throw them away but unwilling to look at them for too long.

One morning, Eoin woke to find the largest island had moved. It had always been the farthest away, little more than a jagged silhouette on the horizon. Now, it loomed just beyond the others, its dark cliffs rising like a fortress. Eoin had never set foot on this island. The waters around it were treacherous, the rocks sharp and unforgiving. But as the other islands drew closer, he knew he couldn’t avoid it forever.

The lighthouse creaked as he gathered his things: a long coil of rope, a compass, a lantern, and the small knife he kept strapped to his belt. The row to the island was slow and arduous, the water choppier than it had been in weeks. When he finally reached the shore, he found himself standing at the base of a narrow path winding up the cliffs. The air was filled with the scent of salt and something else—something metallic and faintly sweet.

As he climbed, the whispers grew louder. They weren’t fragments anymore. They were voices. His father. Moira. The voices of his crewmates, long dead. Their words were disjointed at first, overlapping in a cacophony that made his head throb. But as he ascended, they grew clearer, more accusatory.

“You should have saved us,” one of them said, the words cutting through him like a knife.

Another chimed in, “How could you let it happen?”

When he reached the top, the island’s truth revealed itself. The barren rock had transformed into the shipwreck he had spent decades trying to forget. The deck was tilted, the wood warped and splintered, but the details were unmistakable: the tattered sails, the broken mast, the lifeboat that had been too damaged to use. And there, standing at the helm, were his crewmates. Their faces were pale and waterlogged, their eyes empty sockets, but they stood as though waiting for him.

“Why did you leave us?” one of them asked, his voice hollow and accusing.

Eoin’s knees buckled, and he fell to the deck. “I didn’t… I couldn’t save you. The storm—”

“You ignored the warnings,” another crewmate said. “You thought you knew better.”

“I was young. Stupid. I—”

“You survived,” his father’s voice cut in, booming.

Eoin’s throat tightened. Their accusations pressed down on him, heavier than anything he had carried before. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know why I lived and you didn’t.”

His father stepped closer, the deck creaking under his boots. “Why tend a light for others when you couldn’t save us?”

The lighthouse beacon, visible even from the island, flickered and dimmed. The humming of the islands grew louder, a deafening roar that seemed to shake the very ground beneath his feet. Eoin looked around, panic rising in his chest. The islands were converging, their rocky shores crashing into each other, the sea boiling between them.

“What do you want from me?” he shouted, his voice barely audible over the roar.

Eoin stood at the edge of the shipwreck’s deck, the voices swirling around him like a tempest. The sea churned below, dark and furious. The voices clashed and overlapped, some pleading, others angry. From the din, one voice broke through, clear and commanding.

“BURN THE BRIDGE!” it cried, echoing across the jagged cliffs.

Eoin took a step closer to the edge, the sea below churning like a beast waiting to swallow him whole. His feet felt leaden, the burden of years too solemn to swim through.

The voices surged again. “BURN THE BRIDGE!” the cry came again, fierce and unrelenting.

Eoin’s hands clenched into fists. He looked out over the roiling water. The toy boat felt heavier in his coat pocket, as though it had soaked up the weight of the sea and his memories along with it. He ran his fingers over the name Eamon; it felt like an anchor.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

He stepped forward and fell into the water.

Eoin awoke to the sound of waves crashing against the rocks. For a moment, he couldn’t move. His body ached, and his mind was foggy, but the air around him felt lighter.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the lighthouse standing tall above him, its weather-worn walls streaked with salt and sunlight. He was in the dinghy caught up on the jagged rocks at its base, the tide lapping at his boots.

The air around him was silent—no voices, no hum, no islands. He scanned the horizon, a calm settling over him. The sea stretched out before him, its surface unbroken, vast and endless.

That evening, he sat at his small wooden desk. With the sound of the waves faint in the background, Eoin opened his journal. He stared at the blank page for a long time, the pen poised in his hand, before he began to write.

The next morning, the journal sat atop the desk, closed, its weathered cover faintly damp from the sea air. By the time the light of dawn broke across the horizon, the only trace of him left was the steady, silent beam of the lighthouse, cutting through the gray.

---

Thanks for reading! Today’s header is an original piece by artist Nancy Hollis. You can find her here (Instagram) and here (her website).

ALSO! The title of today’s piece is inspired by my brother’s music, which you can find here.