The island kept changing. Trees became buildings became trees. Sand became asphalt became sand. In and out, blinking off and on, rural to urban, deserted to jam-packed, and back again.
“It’s supposed to stay on one or the other,” she muttered. She was wearing a tropical-themed shirt. Her clothes were supposed to determine the theme of her surroundings. But it wasn’t working today. Her outfit wasn’t tropical enough. Her jeans and sandals were ordinary things that people could wear anywhere. The magic was confused, and it was making her confused, too.
She couldn’t stand it. The island blinked in and out, in and out. The city blinked in and out, in and out. She pressed her hands against her head and squeezed her eyes shut. Her fingers tangled in the bun on her scalp.
In the city, a car horn blasted. Near the island, a boat horn blared.
She whirled. Loose cement crunched under her dry sandals. Salt water swirled around her wet sandals.
Her shoes were dry. Her shoes were wet.
Her jeans were light and dry. Her jeans were soaked and heavy.
Car headlights loomed, inches away. A boat hull bared down on her.
Car tires screeched as the driver slammed on the brakes. The boat began to slow.
But the car didn’t have time to stop. The boat didn’t have time to stop.
They were going too fast. She was in the way.
She was stuck in the city, stuck in the island, stuck in the worst spot to be in both places at once.
She screamed.
**
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