Here it comes again. A small mountain of water shatters against the tubular walls of this seemingly fragile structure. I can barely enjoy my cup of steaming tea in this mayhem as it spills all around the edges. I just know that this tumultuous night will be memorable. I anticipate the strife and the grief. But no matter, no matter, I better focus on the task at hand… I wipe my tea-moist hand on the apron to get better purchase on the knife. I finish chopping the other half of the onion just as another liquid hill disintegrates against the western side. I spy the black amalgam of bubbling foam from an oblong window. The iridescent beacon of light beaming from the lamp room upstairs flashes aimlessly at a vacant horizon: nobody’s coming. More specifically: he’s not coming. The effervescence of the murky waters reminds me of the chowder bubbling turbulently on the stove just as it’s about to splill over. I soothe it with my breath. One more molten mound explodes against the wall by the stove. The tea has gone cold, but the warmth of this chunky soup revives my senses as it slowly descends: it gives me hope.

October 13th, 2:48 am. At the top of the lighthouse, Lightkeeper Dom rests their foot on the bottom protective railing, leaning on their arms as they search through the mist. If anyone else was up at this ungodly hour on their boat, and could tolerate looking at the rotating light, they may see the intermittent silhouette of the lightkeeper looking out to the horizon. Looking for them.

When Dom took the position of lightkeeper 30 years ago, they were warned of the… unusual circumstances of this particular lighthouse. Aside from the unique layout of the coastline requiring them to reside on a small island some 2 miles from the main shore for prolonged periods alone, Dom was also informed of several disturbing and horrific accidents at sea near or even on the island. But something about this area makes these wrecks come back, constantly searching, trying to return home but forever trapped by the invisible line of the island. At several times throughout the year, every year, Dom meets these lost souls at the pier of the island. They provide supplies- offerings given by locals in the nearest town who are aware of the spectral visitors- and their services as an ear to listen and an expert of the tides to guide the boats back on their way.

The vessels and the spirits aboard them are as varied as the fish in the sea. Dom frequently encounters small fishing vessels of long dead locals, private boats of deceased rich families, hell there are even two pirate ships that Dom helps every year, though the respective captains would loathe to know the other ever arrived on the island. But today is the hardest day for Dom. Every October 13th, at 3:00 am, a small raft drifts toward the island. This early morning is no different. Dom’s strained eyes finally settle on the vessel and they rush down the stairs to the ground level. Once there, they spy the familiar faces of Victor and Evelyn coming toward the dock. Dom takes a deep breath.

“Ahoy,” they call walking to the end of the pier.

“Oh, thank heavens,” Victor cheers, “Maybe you can help us. Our boat crashed and we’ve been adrift for quite some time. Are we… are we finally ashore?”

Dom sighs and shakes their head, “Almost, but not quite. Here,” Dom hands Evelyn a canteen of water, which she and Victor gratefully drink from. “If you keep going a little while longer, you will see the shore.” Dom gives the practiced lie fluidly, after 30 years they’ve learned exactly what to say and how to say it to not make the situation worse. But this particular lie is the hardest. To know that these poor people survived a shipwreck, and floated for who knows how long, only to perish tragically at sea. It’s profound in its spirit of hope and its sadness.

Victor looks in the direction Dom points and nods, solemnly. “Almost there, Evelyn. Just stay strong,” He turns again to Dom, “I don’t suppose you have a sturdier vessel, or some food, which we could make use of, friend?”

They again provide the practiced line, though this one is true. “Unfortunately I’m ferried out here, and I’m not due for shore leave for another 3 months. However, I do have some food.” Dom goes to a nearby shed, placed near the pier specifically for their ethereal guests, and pulls out some jerky and fruit. Again, Evelyn and Victor gratefully take the food.

Evelyn looks up to Dom, tears in her eyes, and says “Thank you for your kindness, we will make sure the townsfolk know of how you’ve helped us.”

There’s a moment of silence, Dom’s least favorite part, before they say “Please, don’t mention it. I’m happy to help, I wish you safety to the shore.” They know the raft will never make it. But as they watch the raft disappear back into the chop of the water, Dom can’t help but sigh in relief. This interaction is done for another year.

Despite these interactions, Dom has stayed for 30 years, the longest consecutive lightkeeper on record. Even the lightkeepers who have come out to take over during Dom’s short leaves don’t tend to stick around. But Dom can’t imagine anything else. There’s a sense of…peace in this life. That they could give these souls some respite from the tides is a calling they happily accept. Even if for a moment in time, only once a year. They sigh and make their way back up the stairs. The sun will rise soon, and Dom will go to bed. But for now they sit in the scanning light, reaching out in the darkness, looking for any more souls that may need guidance.

I bring the light. From my tower by the seaside, my job is to shine a light for weary travellers, so that they may find their home. Although the waters may be rough and the winds unkind, our family lighthouse guides sailors into the warmth of their loved one’s kitchens, their bellies already grumbling at the thought of the soothing soup awaiting them. They’ve been dreaming of the smell of their wife’s hair as they’ll wrap her in a tight hug, as if daring the universe to try to keep them apart again.

And it’s my job, as keeper of the light, to make this happen. I bring the light, and imagine the squeals of joy from children as their father makes his way through the door, his face - albeit more weathered and sun kissed than the last time they’d seen him - beaming as he scoops them up in a hug, as if they were fish and his arms the net.

I leave a light on for travellers, those coming home and those seeking refuge on our shore. This has been my family’s job for generations. The villagers look to us as if we were the light itself. They’re always quick to welcome us into their homes for a meal, or to sleep in one of their beds if the night is dark and a storm is raging, remembering that it was our lighthouse that brought their sons home the last time the skies opened like this. We graciously accept these kindnesses, but know it is our duty to bring the light. A duty we perform with gratitude, humility, eagerness, and care.

After all, although the lighthouse has been in our family for generations, many years ago, we were guiding sailors in a much different way, using our voices to lure them to their watery graves.

Today when John woke up, he had a feeling of dread. His father was still along him to take care of the house but this was the first time he was alone in it. All he had to do was make sure the light was on till morning then switch it off. That and answer the door. “Let’s do this” John said as he climbed the latter to the top. When he climbed up he saw nice, slow, calming waves below. He saw a few ships in the horizon, fishers probably. The sun started to lower along intricate colors fill the sky. The fade of orange and pink swirled in the sky. The night was now.

The ship from before was still there bouncing in the waves of the sea. The sea was not a clean sea, trash was seen even from the light house that was miles away. “What is he doing out there?” Mumbled John to himself as he flashes the light on. It was getting so dark the only way to see was from the blinding light. Soon another ship came from the horizon, heading to the fishing ship. John shinind the light at the upcoming ship. Then the light went off. “What the hell?!” Asked John checking the light. It didn’t take long for the light to go back on. However now there was only one ship.

Lighthouse. Not your typical light house. A house with lights. Not electricity or bulbs. The people- bright and happy. Love personified. And like a lighthouse they guide They illuminate, they lead Bringing to light what you need

But like lights they burn out Batteries need replacing, recharging, relighting Re-loving, reliving, relearning Restarting. Turn the page. Turn off the switch.

A light can only burn bright for so long. It all goes dark in the end A candle burning out A phone dying A blackout A flash of lightning A black hole The sun swallowing itself As it was always meant to

There isn't much we can do to stop the cosmos colliding But enjoy the transient beams of colour and light That guide us Like that of a lighthouse Like those people Like love

The wind was harsh and cold. Blowing the girls hair into her face, refusing to let up. She walked on the wet sand towards the lighthouse. Her raft was abandoned by the shore. Her dress was soaking wet a mixture of the catastrophic wreck and stubborn rain. The ship she had been on sank into the endless ocean, forever gone along with everyone else on the ship. She had managed to get on the raft just in time. The lighthouse was seemingly abandoned, with peeling paint and rusted doors. It took a bit of strength to get in, but when she finally did she took in the surroundings. If no one has been here in years, who turned the light on that led her to the island. She walked up the spirling stair case with careful steps. Entering the room that has the light controls she looked around still no one. Where had everyone gone?

I know I am the last one. It is important to say that out loud. I kept the lights because it is written on my bones, but I know more about time than most, and mine has run out.
The last day of the last light rises in a thick bank of clouds. They threaten rain but never deliver. The men fishing in the coves are going to have to pull in early tonight. That is how I prefer it. I never know what to say when they try to speak to me. They are all ruddy faces and calloused fingers holding great mugs, hot in the morning, cold and amber in the evening. All voices and bluster and shiny oilskins. Next to them, my voice floats away, a piece of flotsam on the great sea of their laughter. On the morning of the last light, I make coffee in the dark. Memory has the best eyes, and I spare the light to pour the kettle. The men who fish below me have whispered that I live with ghosts. My ambition to become one has seemed lost on them. Today, I will walk. I will feel the clouds press down into the matching gray of my hair, the spray will sting the deep grooves in my cheeks, and I will not come back. There is no need to be cruel. I blame no one. Not the fishermen who try to be kind but say I have gone so long alone that I talk to myself. They cannot know that I long ago ceased talking even to myself. Not the father who kept the lights before me and knew how to say the right words, promised not to leave me alone and then a storm on the water gave him no choice. When you know you are not going to come back, the warmth of coffee against a wind that promises rain is a small miracle. So, too, the heavy tread of boots climbing down, and down, and down, the 100 steps to the promontory. Loud and sure, down, down, to the edge of the sea. I do not look back. I said my good-byes to the things that matter last night. The broken lamp that my father glued together but the cracks will always show, the snowy egret with his head on one side, making a study of me. I do not blame him, either. I am poor company. I have decided to walk, not to fly. I have never been a romantic. There was a time when I would watch the sea and imagine it watched me, and dreams blurred into the real and I believed myself wise, but I was not gray then. The edge of the sea is supposed to be empty. I do not want to spend long moments in reflection staring down. There has been enough life spent on staring down. I am prepared to walk away. But for these seconds, I will not look down at the sea. I force myself to look up into the clouds, balefully gathering but refusing to fall, and, in the distance but coming closer, a small figure across the causeway. Too far way to see anything but an outline. They will turn and go back to town. Everyone gets notions on a day like this, but, since I have no intention of coming back, I can't allow them to come over here. I close my eyes, and, opening them again, the figure is still there, coming closer. I can see the shape of them. A small figure in black. I hadn't meant for anyone to see. I am told these things are frightening to the young. Closer, and I can see the figure is a girl. Too far still to make out her age, but too young to understand, wrapped head to toe in a giant black raincoat with the hood up. The rain has not started. Closer. I will not wait. It's a cruelty to me to ask me to. But what a cruelty it would be to her, who is afraid of a rainstorm. Closer. She's reached the end of the causeway and turns herself toward me. She's close enough to speak to, for those so inclined. "Hey!" her voice is louder than the snowy egret, and just as insistent. Perhaps they will have something to talk about. From here, I see she walks like him, too, all legs, tripping her feet gingerly toward me. She even tilts her head on one side, her face long and skinny under the hood. "Hey! Sorry to bug you. Can I paint here?" I don't know what the words mean. I do, of course, but my mouth does not. "Hey, sorry, my stupid sister's in town with her kids. She's got eight of them now. They keep knocking over all my stuff. Can I just, like sit here, and paint? I'll buy a ticket." A croaking noise comes out of my mouth. What is that? If she is an egret, I am a raven. Even my mind takes a moment to realize that the croaking I have made is laughter. My mouth moves a little. "No ticket." The words come out soft, unpracticed. "For real? How do you make any money?" "Keep the lights." "Were you just leaving?" I feel my head nodding. I no longer have control over it. "Oh, crap, I'll leave." She should. She should leave and so should I, and this should all be over in minutes, and my head is shaking no. "I mean, I don't want to keep you. I bet you're busy." I croak again. The raven in my throat is funny. "I'll just sit here at the edge. I won't be any trouble." My head shakes, no. My mouth opens again. "Not here." My legs, whom I no longer understand, begin to lead me back toward the stairs. "What?" she says. I lift my hand and point up. "There." She follows me up. 100 steps up, up, to the top where the light means home to all but me. I lead her to stand where all of us have stood, staring out, her eyes wide. My legs take me down to bring her the folding chair I keep in the tiny kitchen, the last pour of the coffee. She sits, absorbed, and makes no move to pick up a brush, and I stand and watch her young eyes drink the clouds and waves and decide nothing for sure. Only, when she asks if I'll be here tomorrow, the raven answers, "Yes."

So I am this lighthouse This outpost This saint of loneliness and light. So I am this statue of solidarity Sunk up to my knees in frigid waves Standing in the steely sea. So you say.

I am not Self isolating I am safely growing in the shade Under the blanket of an overcast sky. I am not Worse off Without your skyscraper frame sitting Heavy on the beach beside me.

What you don’t see How the grassy cliff hugs me Shelters me as you never could. What you don’t see The contrast between the gently windswept pine trees And your harsh, cold profile. What you don’t see How your toxins leached into our waters Bleached the sky pale. So what you don’t see I am not This wilting orchid, poisoned by the salinity of the ocean.

I am a strong-willed thistle, taking root in the fertile soils of my new home.

Abraham ran a pair of weather-worn fingers through his under-lip bristles, his ‘tickler’ as he late wife Ophelia had called it, eyes front facing. The seas were wicked. Tense and brimming with restless vigor. It would storm this day, he knew that for a god-given fact.

The railing, long since needing proper maintenance, the sort he alone could not provide from the confines of this island, whined in the winds low gusts. Abraham ran a hand over it, as if reassuring.

He found his way inside for the sake of his would-be escapee hat. His chores took longer than normal for a few reasons; the brewing storm not the least of them. Just keeping the window guards fastened was an effort. But more than that, Abe was distracted. His mind drifted far away back toward home.

He saw the wooden doorway and the handmade postbox which received his checks every month. Inside he pictured their faces. His daughter would have aged some, he knew this but he dared not imagine how she may have changed. The face in his minds eye was the same as the last he’d seen her. His wife too.

He smiled despite it all; the distance, the solitude. And outside the storm still brewed.

Walking along the beach late at night, he held her close as the wind whistled through. He kissed her cheek and brushed back her hair and told her had a little surprise inside the car. Terry lit up a smile with a spark in her eyes just as a sound pierced through the night.
Her and Jay both turned to look out towards the water. Out in the distance they saw a lighthouse. The light was spinning with some kind of alarm as they both looked at each other with fear and wonder growing quickly to see what it was.
Grabbing her hand, they looked around to see if a lifeguard was anywhere near. All they could see was his little Toyota parked up by the gate. Nobody else was around that they could see, so Jay thought for a minute as Terry held on, not sure what to do.
“We have to go see if something is wrong” he said, and pulled Terry’s hand as he started to run. “Someone could be hurt” he said and Terry replied, “We can’t swim out there. The water’s too cold.”
As they came to the water, just at their feet was a small canoe that looked to be abandoned and no one was near to see whose it was. “We’ll take the canoe and bring it back when we’re done” he said. “Someone could be out there in danger and needs our help” he finished. Terry agreed and said “OK. But how do we know we’ll come back alive. What if it’s some kind of false alarm, waiting to kill at just the right second” she said, her mind now filled with all kinds of ideas.
“I’m sure it’s just someone that needs help with something. Don’t worry. If there’s any danger, I have a small knife in my back pocket” he said as Terry looked back to see, a bit more worry there could be blood in this hood simaraten deed. What if there was maybe a fight that broke out and someone was dead while the other was waiting to escape without getting caught. They could be the next victim and never come back. Or maybe someone just fell and needs help she finally thought and trusted Jay to do the right thing and keep an eye out for any danger.
They got in the canoe and paddled their way out to the light. The sound was loud the closer they got. It looked to be a hundred yards out as they kept on moving, trying to keep the cold water from splashing. The wind was chili giving Terry goosebumps not just for the cold, but fear that something just wasn’t right. She had a sixth sense and her instincts were screaming to turn back around, but Jay was already speeding up to get out.
Ten minutes later, they reached the light house and pulled the canoe around to the ladder leading up to the top. Terry looked up as they both held their ears. “Something is wrong” she yelled to Jay. “I think we should leave and call the police” she finished but Jay said “We can’t. My phones at the house and we don’t have time.” Still nervous as ever, Terry agreed and said “let’s hurry Jay. I really am scared.”
He took her hand and lead her the way up the latter, one step at a time as the sound was now almost unbearable, hurting their ears but had no time to turn back now. Terry could hear a faint voice screaming, screaming something she couldn’t quite tell. She was close and worried at what she might see.
When they reached the top, Terry could see through the window a little girl trapped with her hands tied behind her back and a tall man in black with a knife and a grin.
Terry was worried what to do next as her and Jay climbed in the window and stood on the floor, seeing the girl sobbing with tears. “Let her go” Jay said as he took a step forward. “No can do” the man said with his knife pointing down at the girl. “Why the alarm then, man. What do you want?” Jay asked, putting his hands up to show he wasn’t trying to fight. He just wanted the girl to be safe and alive.
“I knew some idiot would come to save her” he said. “So know you all die and I’m scott free.”