Prompt: There's an island where all lost things end up. Today you wake up, cold and wet, on that island.

When you're on the beach every day you think you know sand, but this kind is nothing like the grainy stuff lining the south Cali shores I'm used to – it's the kind of sand that fills your mouth and swimsuit and turns your hair into a solid cake of blah. I spit some of the grainy stuff out of my mouth and run my tongue over my teeth, wincing, when someone speaks above me and I look up sharply.

"Oh. It's another one." Says the most dreary-looking man your could possibly imagine, dressed in a blue pinstripe suit with sand staining his leather shoes and the trim of his slacks. I feel naked in comparison in my swimsuit, but manage to stand and brush the sand off of my arms without completely losing my composure.

"Um... Hey." I venture, staring at the man curiously. He only stares back with bleak blue eyes that look so washed-out they're almost white. "Where exactly am I? How badly did I wipe out?" I look around for my board, but it's nowhere to be seen. Dad is going to kill me.

"That's the question, isn't it?" The man replies, then heaves a sigh like all of the world's problems have been dumped on him.

"Actually, it is." Frustration simmers within me. "And I have to get back to my friends, and my phone is with Sami on shore. So if you could just point me in the right direction..." I trail off when I see a humorless smile flicker on his face.

"How could I? We're lost." He replies simply, then sighs again. "Follow me."

For the first time since I washed up I try to get my bearings. It looks like a standard beach, except there's a forest or jungle right along the sand – definitely not California, or no part that I've been to. I must have traveled really far. As I'm watching the woods the shadows seem to shift and leap, moving like creatures stalking prey behind the tree trunks, then they solidify and the image vanishes.

"W-what was that?" I ask, pointing a trembling hand to the woods.

"Hope." The man says, a semblance of fear on his face. "I try not to think about it."

I get an explanation after a few miles of walking, or what the man thinks is an explanation.

"This is the island of Lost Things." The man says suddenly as we wander along the coastline, stubbing our toes on shells and kicking up the surf. "Everyone has something of theirs sent here eventually, but so rarely do we get children." His pale eyes gleam with excitement.

"Great. But how did I get lost? People get lost all the time."

He waves a hand as if this is irrelevant. "Simply misplaced, not truly lost. They find their way right in the end, don't they? But you... What is the last thing you remember?"

"I was surfing. It's Friday – or was, I guess, and that's when I usually go out with my friends and hit the beach. It was just a normal day, I dunno how I got lost..."

"Ah. Lost at sea." The man nods, as if this explains everything.

"Wait, what? My parents are going to be worried sick! And I've got school and stuff... You got a ferry service off this island?"

"I'm afraid that's not the case."

"Well it had better be the case, or you've got something else coming for you. And you said that you have children come here rarely. I don't see anyone else around. Where are they?"

"You have lots of questions."

"Look, man... I don't even know your name! What is going on? Please, can you just tell me everything?"

"You wouldn't believe how long it's been since someone has asked me that plainly."

"Since you so rarely have children around, I can see why."

The trees rustle and the man's eyes flicker to the side. "Come, let's take shelter in the waves. The hope can get restless at night."

---

"My name is Tito, but you can call me what you like."

"Nice to meet you, Mister Tito. I'm Tobin."

"Pleasure." He says dryly, but his eyes are still on the trees.

"Okay, please just get to it."

"All lost things end up here. We have buckets of car keys, the occasional missing child, like you, millions of messages-in-a-bottle, et cetera. Lately there's been an onslaught of Peter Pan memorabilia, but I believe that's the name 'Lost Boys' causing it."

"And when you said there was hope in the forest..."

"Lost-hope. Forgotten dreams, other realities, better worlds, all forsaken. When they realize they're here they turn dark, vengeful. Only I can venture in there alone, and even then I am not sure of my own safety. I am caretaker of this island, of course, and I do my best, but hope was meant to flourish, you see. It's like a monster bred for war and the war ends before it can be used. Hope is not a monster, but it can be devilishly tricky."

"Okay, and what about me?"

"Lost at sea. We get your like often – the castaways, and once even an aircraft carrier, and boatloads of people from the Titanic, bless their hearts, but that was before we even knew about the hope."

"The Titanic? That old ship that took the ice bucket challenge?"

"The one and only."

I sit down in the surf, feeling the water curl around my ankles. "And what happened to them? What happens to me now?"

"The hope got to them. Not a bad way to go, not entirely. Fills you with the most delightful sensation, like you can do all you've dreamed to. You remember all these old plans of yours, and suddenly the world seems so open..."

"What happens to them, Tito?"

"The hope devours them. Literally eats them alive. It can't feed off of its own master's hope, so it feeds off of theirs. Only then can the hope be released, when it really becomes hope again. But there's just so much lost hope in the world now, the woods are full. You can't take a step in without being assailed. That's why they created me – I have no hope. I simply exist to maintain the island."

"Who created you, Tito?"

"I don't know. It may seem fanciful, but I may have invented my creator. It just seems that this purpose of mine is so deeply ingrained, it can't be natural. I was made for this."

"Okay. But what happens to me?"

"All the lost objects accumulate, and vanish over time. Most return to the sea, the infinite vortex, never to be seen again. Why do you think ninety-five percent of the ocean is uncharted? So many lost things filling its waters. And people care more about space than they do their own waters. We've had some trouble with archaeologists, but nothing more."

"Yeah, great. But what about me?"

"The people. Ah, the people are tricky."

"What? Why are they tricky?

"There's something I haven't told you, Tobin."

"Oh, yeah, I'm all ears."

"Every person that comes to the island goes to the hope in the end. At the end of their first day, they return to the woods. The stuff goes to the water, but the people go to the woods. They say there's a voice, and it beckons to them... I would say resist it, but I've said it to so many people... I'm sorry, Tobin. The hope is just too powerful."

"So you mean that at the end of this day I'm gonna die?"

"I'm afraid so."

I glare into the watery depths of Tito's eyes, searching his features for when he pops out and says 'just kidding!'

"You can't be serious."

"I'm afraid I am."

"And that's just how it is?"

"I'm sorry."

"So I'm screwed."

"Yes."

"Great. Just freaking great." I tug at my sand-clogged hair, trying to make sense of my situation. "I'm lost at sea on an island of lost things, and there's rabid hope in the woods that wants to eat me up and will by sundown."

"Precisely."

"So what are we sitting around for?" I ask, putting on a cheerful front. "Show me around!"

Everywhere we go is on the beach, so Tito takes me on a complete loop.

"Lost time!" He announces proudly as I nearly fall into a chasm fifty feet deep, filled with what looks like an odd combination of study textbooks, mobile devices, and full-sized beds. A rickety bridge leads across the gorge and I follow Tito as he points down, showing me random items and rattling off random facts about the most potent time-wasters.

"Oftentimes, there will be other objects thrown in there too – once I had a pack of racing greyhounds and a sports team of some kind – but hope always gets the live ones."

With one mention of hope our conversation dims, and Tito quickly moves on.

"Lost minds." There is no canyon this time, only a collection of flittering spirits dancing across the beach, in every color imaginable, blending together and catching the light on their wings.

"They're amazing!" I cry out, unable to keep the words to myself when a midnight-blue spirit zips before my eyes and does loops around its companions.

"Minds come here often, seeking refuge from the world. Most are kind and benevolent, and equally as beautiful. Still, you must remember they have partners in the real world."

Even so, the sight of the spirits shimmering in the sunlight is too majestic to make me realize their counterparts left behind. Tito doesn't seem as awed as I am, shooing away some of the mind-spirits that flock to him, battering his nose lightly with their wingtips.

"The Beach of Glass!" At first I think the beach may actually be made of rounded glass, but then I see the place is carpeted with stacks and stacks of bottles, each containing a written message. Out of curiosity I pick one up and read it.

'Dear Diary, I have a secret!!! I think Jimmy from school likes me! You can't tell anyone!'

'Hello! My name is Patricia Newport from Houston, Texas. Did you get my message? I am ten years old and in Mrs. Martin's class. Please write me back!'

The last one is more solemn.

'Mommy says you're not coming back but I know that's not true. She yelled at me when I wrote this, but I know you're out there, Daddy. I love you. Please come home.'

"And if this letter is lost..."

"It means there was no recipient. I'm sorry."

I almost laugh, thinking about the hope in the forest. Whenever we go somewhere it reminds me where I am. I'm on a freaking island in the middle of nowhere and I'm about to die in a few hours. How can I be calm?

The next location is filled with things that I can only classify as fine arts, lots of pianos and canvases and even the occasional harmonica. Everything looks top-notch and very nice, especially the artwork. When I ask Tito he replies, "Losing your touch. You gradually get worse at something if you don't keep it up. For example, I used to be a master ukulele player, but now I can barely pluck out a tune."

I crack up laughing but Tito's emotionless eyes are serious. In fact, I think I see a ukulele on the top of one of the piles.

We walk along for a bit until we arrive at a large signpost-looking thing like the signs they have for restaurants back at home, only it's a movie poster for Lost.

"What's this?" I ask, and even though I've never seen the show I know enough about it to recognize it.

Tito just looks at me funny. "You can't expect to have an island of lost things and not have any Lost television series merchandise."

I don't really know how to respond to that and settle for simply walking in silence until we reach the next area.

We may have walked into a WWE wrestling club area, but outside on the beach. There's a grungy bar with equally grungy barstools and grimy tables where heavily muscled men are gathered, arm-wrestling and gnashing their teeth.

"Losing your temper." Tito whispers as one man is overpowered in arm-wrestling, lets out a roar of frustration, and kicks over the table in one blow, then punches the lights out of the guy who won.

"But they're people. How are they here?"

"The Tempests? That's what I call them, I mean. The Temper people. No, they're not human, just spirits of a certain emotion. They'll be around for ages, hope never appeals to them as much as another beer does. Come on, let's go."

The setting serves no purpose but to only remind me of my impending doom, and I ask Tito for some advice as we wander the beaches.

"I can't really give you any. The first time it happened I was shocked. It was a little girl who had gotten lost, not just misplaced, and she went all slack, then looked at the woods and started walking towards it, smiling like there were no problems in the world, and once she got close enough the hope just sprung. It's been without a vessel for so long, I almost don't blame it."

"For killing people?" I shout, outraged, and Tito shrugs.

"You're lost. You might as well be dead."

"No." I stab a finger at his chest. "All of those people, all of those letters, they were real. And maybe you don't get it, Tito, but at home we don't live for twenty-four hours, we live for a whole lot longer. I still have a life ahead of me, unlike you, who'll be stuck on this island moping forever, and I'm not letting hope kill me. Good luck trying!"

"I'm telling you, they all say that." Tito adds, maybe trying to be helpful, but notices when I don't speak to him afterwards. He even takes me to the lost dogs area of the island, hoping the puppies will cheer me up, but I keep up a stiff silence to my guide until the sun is centimeters over the horizon.

Time to say goodbye.

"Look, man, I'm sorry." Ashamed, I shake Tito's hand as the sun sinks low, bathing my bare chest in warm light. "You've been a great guide and a great friend for this day, and thank you for talking straight to me."

"I won't forget you, Tobin." Tito replies, shaking my hand vigorously despite the blankness in his face and eyes. "Thank you for asking me good questions. I'll miss you here."

"Well, you know what they say," I joke, "All lost things are eventually found."

The sun is gone, sending a chill over the beach that makes me shiver, and I turn towards the woods.

The trees shiver too, trembling with the hope racing about inside, and I feel my feet begin to move towards the tree trunks, like watching myself on TV but not being in control. Oddly enough, I'm not scared, like my day on the island has somehow weirdly prepared me for this.

The wind howls, pulling at my sandy hair and my beach shorts, and I walk even closer. The ground under my feet is made of finer, dry sand, with leaves poking from the surface. I'm so near to the hope I can feel it tugging my shorts, my arms, willing me to come in. And I feel it.

I can do it, I think. I'll see my parents again. I'll ask Sami to that dance I've been wondering about for ages. I'll catch my perfect wave, maybe even once, feeling the power under my feet, pumping my fist in the air as I ride into shore. The hope sucks out my blood, my breath, and my bones, leaving me with nothing left, not even the will to fight it.

And I step in.

Instantly darkness converges on me, filling me up with what the hope took, like someone is filling me up with blocks of ice, but the small seed of hope still inside of me melts the chill away and I feel the sway of the water in my body, dousing me, becoming one with the sea.

I'm just another bottle in the ocean, swallowed up by hope. I'm lost at sea.

A familiar weight presses into my chest and suddenly a buoyancy pushes me up out of the ocean, listing gently to the side I lean on. My board, the one I thought I lost. My eyes are closed tightly and I open them to see the setting sun melt down over the California skyline, and a girl's voice screams over the crash of the surf.

"Tobin! Oh my god, where were you? You're a mess, what happened to you? Come on, talk to me, I've already gotten gray hairs from you, thanks for nothing! Oh, come on already, I've got the car ready. Stop looking at me like that, you should see what you look like. Let's go!"

And if there's one thing Tito got wrong on his tour, it's that the hope isn't a monster. It's the means to an end, the key to a return, and I have freed it. It hasn't grown sour over the years, only kinder, and it doesn't steal the people away – it takes them home.