The Inside Diaries

Island

Her fingers remain poised above the plasticine keyboard, her thoughts swirling with sweetly sewn settings and tempestuous timelines. Secrets. A sisterhood. An intellectual woman.

An inheritance—

She begins typing, almost rapid-fire, before halting once more. Where?

The writer glances about, noticing cutouts of semi-crooked watercolor-grade paper, well-worn books, thickly-bound pens, still encased in their protective purchase-made shield.

Anywhere, she posits to herself with a headlong sigh. Anywhere but here.

Her imagination inevitably wanders as she sips her tea and takes a spoonful of piping hot soup at turns. The Bahamas? Too cliché. A generically termed 'Southern Isles?' Too vague. Oceania? Not tropical enough. And further away from artistic direction, besides, as she'd planned that locale for an entirely different set of novellas.

An idea floats, landing upon her subconscious, disinterred from long-buried memories, of a past life spent in a stately office, carpeted with its own 'living room,' meant for entertaining and such, though she sensed there was likely a more appropriate, accurate term for such an area. And a colleague, who, long ago, lived in—

The Azores.

Portuguese, distant enough to idealize, and island enough to reminisce, such perception was largely based on said colleague's recollection, a colleague who no doubt experienced day-to-day tropical happenings beneath the shade of multiple palm fronds, and maybe, the writer imagined, surrounded by a hibiscus grove or two, while expecting and eventually giving birth to her first child.

Transcribing tidbits of semi-muted transmogrified memory, strand by strand onto typed keypad, the writer imagined that such a place would be family-friendly and welcoming, especially for a protagonist with no relatives to speak of—at least during an earlier period of her young adult life.

One could easily lose oneself in such a lovely locale, if the Instagram stars' photos were of any indication, its cerulean water glassy and replete with oceanic wildlife—including pelagic full-fronded fish such as the White Marlin, Yellow Fin, and perhaps a hammerhead shark or two. But nothing overly dangerous, the writer clarified to herself as the story's tight green bud began to unfurl, revealing the carefully-crafted artistry within. This wasn't "Jaws," after all.

Breathtaking, she imagined her protagonist would say. Breathtaking and utterly serene, her melanin-hued visage gazing forth in the direction of soft, tumbling waves, a deep cobalt hue fading into iridescent aquamarine, its licks and laps briefly hugging the caramel-colored sandbar for mere seconds before repeating its pattern—for infinity? She did not know. Either way, it was, truth be told, a soothing sequence, if ever there was one.

Deciding on a location was one thing, transporting the female protagonist there was an entirely different matter altogether. First, the writer inherently understood as she sipped yet another spoonful of spicy broth, there would be an airmailed notice of an inheritance. Something about a bit of property on an island.

But there was more time for that tomorrow, she mused to herself.

For now, she had decided on a setting.

Azores it was.

Once upon a time, on an island far, far away...