The Seaplane on Final Approach

by Rebecca Rukeyser

As far as anyone on Lavender Island was concerned, I had only ever existed here, in my stripey pants. I was a nice girl from a nice home, with little in the way of skills and the past that shapes everyone—immersive games, immersive lust, a preoccupation with making our rooms our own, a hatred as vague as the thick end of a lighthouse beam that we swoop at anyone that crosses us. My ferocity was leveled at becoming.

What I decided about Chef was that he had failed in so many ways that the scope of his interests had dwindled down to what he could do competently.

There are a couple of situations that are ideal for touring your memories: the quiet three minutes after takeoff on a commercial flight, and when you’re trying to fall asleep. The first makes you keenly aware of the possibility of a quick death, and the other makes you aware of the likelihood of one that comes slowly.