A/N: The Island isn't mine; I just sneak into the sandbox when they let me.
There were only five stories here; only the names and details were changed. Here, there was a girl's bike: pink with pom-poms on the handles and beads in the spokes, which clacked against the tires as she sped down the hill from her grandmother's house. There was a brilliant red giant of a dog, clownish and gentle, obeying none, but wise despite this. Over here was a toy boat, too leaky to float in the pond, but amazing because he had built it and it was his design. Here was a notebook, (she despised the word "journal" and thought that diaries were silly,) filled from cover to cover in spidery scrawling handwriting and a child's painstaking illustrations, faded with time and constant exposure to poor lighting. And last of all, here was a brother, that he had held in his arms as the littler boy died. The pollution had taken it all.
It was here that they made humans. The rest was just body parts.