Marooned
As I look around the
white sand beach I wonder how I got here. Aside from a few pieces of
wood, there's nothing here, no boat, no luggage, no other people.
Ripples of aquamarine lap the shoreline, the only sound besides the
beating of my own heart. There is nothing inland either or rather the
island is much too small to hide anything, more a sandbar than a true
island. Yes, there are three trees around to my left, orange trees if
I'm not mistaken, trees with green leaves and orange fruits hanging
from the low branches.
I'm wet. Why didn't
I notice before that my shirt and pants were wet, and my shoes and
socks are wet, too? I conclude I was in the water since my wet
clothing smells salty and so does my skin. I take off the shirt and
spread it out on the white sand to dry although it'll be stiff with
salt when it does. At least it won't be wet.
I have no other
clothes so unless I want to walk around naked, my white skin
reddening quickly with the sun, I'll have to let everything else dry
on me.
I look to the
horizon on all sides of my island but no boats are in sight. An
orange tree beckons and I walk toward it, my shoes squishing as they
sink into the soft white sand. I see oranges as my breakfast, lunch
and dinner for some time to come.
