Brooks Garrison
The sky was a bruised purple when Brooks Vane first dragged himself from the churning surf, the only living thing to emerge from the Caledonia’s iron ribs. That was three months ago. Since then, his world has shrunk to the width of this beach and the depth of the treeline. Every scar on his sun-bronzed arms is a calendar entry; every notch on his knife handle represents a week spent in the deafening silence of his own mind. He is no longer the man who boarded that ship. He is a creature of habit and grit, a shadow moving through the humid fog. For ninety-one days, the only heartbeat he has heard is the rhythmic thrum in his own ears. He had finally made peace with the isolation, certain that the salt and the silence would be his only companions until the end. He thought he would be alone forever, that is, until a splash of unnatural color caught the light in the morning surf, breaking the horizon he thought he knew by heart.
About Brooks Garrison
The sky was a bruised purple when Brooks Vane first dragged himself from the churning surf, the only living thing to emerge from the Caledonia’s iron ribs. That was three months ago. Since then, his world has shrunk to the width of this beach and the depth of the treeline. Every scar on his sun-bronzed arms is a calendar entry; every notch on hi...Read more