In case you’ve ever wondered, all us missing kids aged 2-6 wind up on Candy Island.

Candy Island SOUNDS great. But it ISN’T. It’s a big, scary island. There are lizards bigger than me. We lost three kids last week.

All day, every day, all we think of is HOW TO GET OFF CANDY ISLAND.

We tried building a boat. We found all these branches, made this huge pile. But none of us knew how to make them stick together. Jake’s dad’s a carpenter. He said maybe we’d need carpenter’s glue. But none of us had any of that.

I thought … if we made water shoes, we could just walk home. We could cut coconuts in half, and tie them around the bottoms of our sneakers. But none of us were strong enough to break open the coconuts. And then Madison disappeared. She was the only one who knew how to tie.

We even tried swimming. But the water got really deep, and we were scared of sharks. So we all swam back. Except for Parker. He just wouldn’t stop. We saw him sink down under the water – his head, and then his arm, and then his hand. We told Sarah he was just snorkeling, and he’ll be back someday, with pearls. I don’t think she bought it.

We’re all waiting. I’M waiting. For my parents. They’ve probably checked in the garage, and the closet, and under the bed by now. You’d think … they’d think to check Candy Island, too. When you’re looking for something, you can’t just check everywhere EXCEPT such-and-such a place. Cuz such-and-such a place is always where things wind up.

Maybe no one’s looking anymore. Maybe they just don’t care. Mom was pregnant. She could have another Billy by now. With blue eyes.

This was our last Coke bottle.

I hope somebody finds this.

Bye.

My uncle doesn’t dry up when he touches me. He doesn’t use the Dog Voice or the Cute Toddler Voice. He talks to me. He hugs me and gives me money. Because I can’t do the standard tricks, but I still deserve it. I don’t get an allowance. Even a buck means something. It helps me out.

When my uncle leaves I feel homesick even though I’m home. The calendar gets larger. It’s a big pail I have to fill up with raspberries. I don’t even like raspberries.

I miss my uncle.

Too bad I only see him once a year.

James is the lead. He came from kind of a broken home. His mom was religious. His dad was a gorilla. Every day he put on a gorilla suit, and skated around on roller skates downtown, waving around business signs. We used to practice in their basement. But when his dad skated home, and peeled off that monkey suit, holy shit. I mean, the smell was just epic – even from downstairs. He got run over by this crazed asshole. His mom joined a convent or something.

Royce plays the guitar. He’s probably the best thing we’ve got going. He’s got kind of that angry Mexican look, even though he’s not angry, or even a Mexican, I don’t think. But I know he knows Spanish, cuz he talks to the janitor.

I’m the bassist. I was the last to join. They had an audition, and even though I didn’t play the bass, I was the only one who showed. So I pawned my moped, and learned to play bass on weekends. There’s not much to it.

Our drummer is also named Ringo.

We haven’t played any real gigs yet. But we’re so ready. We know all the big songs. We’re writing our own songs now, too. Royce did one called “Bitchquick” that’s as good as anything they don’t play on the radio.

I guess my biggest fear is that things will fall apart. My parents got divorced. Nothing lasts anymore. James keeps talking about a welding course. Royce is in prison.

Man, if I didn’t have the band, I don’t know what I’d do. Probably get stoned all day. Wind up like my old man. He’s the President.

I can’t fall asleep without first thinking of Mrs. Ramshaw in the other room. I think of how old and sick she is, and how her fat legs stick out. It doesn’t make sense but I only feel comfortable and ok if I know she’s there. She doesn’t say anything or do anything, just lays there breathing. My mom takes pink tranquilizers. Mrs. Ramshaw’s legs are my pink tranquilizers. I just think of them sticking out and I drift to sleep.

I guess I try not to think about Mrs. Ramshaw’s face because I’m worried – it might be my face. In the morning when I wheel past the guest bedroom, I always check. I can’t go by without checking. But I know if I ever really saw Mrs. Ramshaw lying there with my face I’d flop over dead. It’s unhealthy, but it’s always how I imagined I’d die.

It could possibly be a lot worse.

***

Rolli writes – and draws a little – for adults (Hayden’s Ferry Review, New York Tyrant, Rattle) and children (Ladybug, Spider, Highlights). He’s the author of God’s Autobio (short stories) and Plum Stuff (poems/drawings). Visit his blog (www.rolliwrites.wordpress.com), and follow his epic tweets @rolliwrites.

Today I’m guest-posting over at the Nik Perring Show. Read all about my Creative Drinking Club!

On p. 26 of the new QC, I reveal how being physically assaulted by Pierre Elliott Trudeau was, on the whole, excellent for my creativity. Clicky.

When the girl came into the room, the child, she approached me. She spoke, though I did not hear her speaking. The cat … lifted its head. As if it could hear her, speaking. She lifted the cat. I lifted, my hands. But … felt nothing. I lay my hands, on my lap. In place of the cat.

There was a window, and next to this … a second window. Across the room. Tall, windows. I could hear something. Indistinct. Continuous.

I rose, from the chair. I moved, past several other chairs. Leaning, on each, as I went.

There was so much of … light, in the windows. I moved, so slowly, closer. Then lay my hand on the glass.

I could see … the white sand. I could hear, the ocean. The waves. I could hear them. I could hear the waves.

I grew tired of standing. I was not tired, but no longer wished, to stand. The floor was so much cooler. Sitting, with my legs crossed.

By a glass cabinet, the child was standing. She moved in front of it. She was opening, and then she was closing, the door. As she closed it, I observed … her face. In the glass. She turned around, leaving the door ajar. She said to the woman – there was a woman now, at the side of the cabinet -

“Why is my father like this?”

I could hear her, this time. Distinctly.

The woman … lay her hand on the cabinet door, and closed it. She said nothing, but approached the window. This was … the window on my left, now. The other, window. She looked out the window.

Then there was something, some heaviness. In … my legs. I looked, down. It was the cat. I touched it. I closed my eyes, a moment. When I opened them, the woman – the cat was brushing against her, leg. Like the waves. I looked down. My lap, was empty. Except … for the fine hairs, on my trousers. Which were white. And finer, than the sand. I felt them.

I could hear the waves.

I closed my eyes. For someone was crying.

Got a dog. A black dog with white spots. Splendid dog. Got a second splendid dog with black spots. Walked them around and around the block. Got a new blue jacket with lots of buttons. Splendid buttons. Every night walk around and around the block with my splendid dogs and splendid coat with the twelve buttons.

Am I happier than the other lone men, with their splendid dogs, and dozen-button jackets?

Well, I’ve never asked them. If they’re happy or not.

Tinsel! Tinsel! Crumb!