#2: What’s your favorite number? If you could have your favorite number of anything on a deserted island, what would you pick?
I used my answer this time, but an honorable mention goes to Marcia, who wrote a complete little story in her comments. Romance, action, and suspense, what more could you ask for?
My story came to me in a dream, which is probably a sign I think about my blog too much.
* * *
Lyn woke on the beach, surrounded by mangled pieces of the wrecked boat.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
No one answered. Finally, Lyn stopped calling, and walked silently along the sand, picking up any promising debris. She didn’t know when the tide, which had helpfully deposited her on the shore last night, would change and sweep these treasures away. As she rounded a bend, Lyn found an intact crate.
What could be in it? Food? Water?
Lyn grabbed a rock, and bashed and pried at the crate. She opened one of the wrapped packages inside, and began laughing as she determined each was the same.
“Life-rafts! Twenty-two rafts!”
After she’d gotten herself under control, Lyn explored the island. She stared doubtfully at the stream she discovered, thinking about parasites, but drank anyway. Thus fortified, she coiled six rafts on the sand, anchoring them with rocks to create an enormous orange SOS.
Satisfied, she carried her supplies to a sturdy grove of trees. The sun hovered above the horizon by the time she finished her shelter–a raft-and-vine hammock, and branches draped with another raft to form a roof. Lyn slept, curled up in the hammock’s vinyl embrace.
She woke to an aching, empty stomach. The first fruit she picked made her violently ill and shaky for hours afterwards. She tried a bite of another, which stayed down, so she finished the fruit and ate two more. Next, she prepared supplies to take with her when she left the island. Crouched over another raft, Lyn sawed through the tough material with a piece of vine-wrapped metal debris. She’d found a raft repair kit, which she should be able to make water bags with.
“Ouch!” Lyn cradled the hand she’d sliced.
A droning roar echoed through the trees. Lyn’s eyes widened, and she bolted to her feet, racing to the shore. She shouted, and jumped up and down, shaking the raft she clutched in both hands at the helicopter hovering above her.
As her rescuers helped her into the helicopter, Lyn had a brief hysterical thought—she’d used the life rafts for everything but their intended purpose.