by Prometheus
Far off on the edge of the island of La Perdita, the churn of the ocean waves crashed lightly in rythmic procession. The dark, volcanic ore of ancient lava decorated the cleft at the base of the thermal giant in an abstract strata that would have made Salvador Dali weep with joy. The foamy whitecaps spit and stretched every few minutes, leaving a fine spray of salty aroma and an almost organic flavor in the cool evening air.
A few gulls, crying out in random bursts of octaves, scattered along the rocky precipice, constantly searching for the next near-surface fins. Their existence spared any resistance on this far, remote side of neo-paradise, they hopped along the edge of the surf with a calm demeanor.
Then, just as a new wave was crashing with resonance, the flock suddenly fluttered in unison, rising into the air with shrieks of alarm, as if sensing something wrong.
Without warning, just as the flock had made its way airborne, a low, bass humming began to vibrate the area. If anyone had been present, they would have thought the old mountain was becoming active again, breathing with new life.
But, it was not the volcano that was producing the hum. Rather, it was the air itself.
Immediately, there was a flash of blueish light coinciding with a large thunderclap of air as a spatial wormhole ripped open with a swirl of brillance that briefly illuminated the shadowed shore. Then, in barely a heartbeat, it spit something onto the rocky shore and collapsed back into itself, as if never having existed in the first place.
The something, which happened to be a man, lay there face down along the rocks. His breathing came stilted and quiet as he remained, seemingly unconscious.
The water ripped along the shore still, spraying against the smooth, bald head, soaking the gray robelike tunic. And still, the man did not move.
It would be ten minutes until Turkish Stringfellow would open his quasi-purple eyes and exclaim very quietly to himself:
"Where the fuck am I?"