Thursday, February 11, 2016

This was my attempt to write something in the style of Tolstoy for a literature class I facilitated at Writers Village University:


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.

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