Stranded

Today's muse: Seven Days Seven Answers

Checklist: A list of words will be accompanied by a scenario in which to use them.

Words and scenario: You are stranded on an island with only the following: spoon, ukulele, yarn, hand sanitizer, feather boa

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Stranded

For weeks the sun has risen into a cloudless sky, burning everything in its path. I sit by the water’s edge, scrunching my toes in the sand, as I watch the orange orb dip into the ocean.

The island is thick with vegetation, but not animal life. Except for that one thing that keeps rustling in the dense brush when the sun goes down. I am quite sure it is tall—taller than me, at least—as the golden orbs that peer out at me are much higher than my shoulder. He hasn’t attempted to communicate, nor have I. We seem to have an unspoken understanding, the Beast and I. I will live on the open beach, sheltered by the broken fuselage that has washed ashore, and he will stay hidden in the dense jungle that consumes most of this tiny mass of land.

With an oversized serving spoon salvaged from the 747’s kitchenette, I scoop ash from last night’s fire, making a crevice for the flat rock I use for cooking. Dried wood is steepled around it and I light the miniature pyre to heat the rock to an angry red.

Well away from the tide, the other odds and ends that washed up on shore are lined up like an open-air market. Too bad there are no buyers.

As the roaring fire dies down, I set the filleted fish on the rock and it gives off a satisfying sizzle. It smells good and my mouth waters in anticipation.

I hear a rustle in the foliage and squint to peer through the darkness. I know the Beast watches, but turn back to my cooking, confident that he will go back to his side of the island and not bother me.

I assume far too much.

He walks to the opposite side of the fire, his footsteps silent on the pale sand, and crouches down, bringing his face level with mine.

Expecting a hideous creature that will devour me, I’m surprised that the man before me is quite handsome. His skin is dark, baked to perfection by the tropical sun. His sun-bleached hair is long and tied back with a paisley necktie. The growth around his chin, though undisciplined, adds a ruggedness to his features. I recognize the designer suit he wears, though I’m sure the pants were never meant to be hacked off at the knees and he should be wearing a shirt beneath the tailored jacket. Then again, the sinewy muscles that ripple across his body wouldn’t be visible. A bow tie is centred around his throat, giving him the distinct look of a Chippendale dancer.

It occurs to me that he could still devour me, though I’m quite certain I won’t mind.

“I thought I should dress for dinner,” he says, by way of explanation, looking down at his modified attire. I nod, not trusting my voice to be steady. “Seeing as you went to so much trouble.” He gestures at the fillet that continues to sizzle.

I rise, self conscious in my worn shorts and meagre t-shirt.

“I’ll be right back.”

In the fuselage, I sift through clothing rescued from the crash, rummaging through folded piles stacked in the overhead compartments, like an enormous walk-in closet. I recall the beautiful tranny that sat in 23B, who had great legs and a killer outfit.

Letting out a cry of triumph as I spy the red silk dress, I pull it out and slip it over my head. Without a mirror, I can’t be sure how it looks, but I can tell the fabric clings in all the right places. Standing on my toes, I scan the bin and see the pink feathers peaking between the Airline’s bright blue flannel blankets. Jackpot! I hang the feather boa around my shoulders and saunter back to the fire.

I note that the Beast—he is still a beast, though of a different calibre now—has taken the liberty of shopping at my makeshift flea market. He sits cross-legged, strumming a ukulele that I know was left to dry in the sun. One of the strings is broken, but he manages to seduce a melody from the small instrument.

He glances up at me and smiles. “Love the outfit.”

I fling one end of the boa over my left shoulder. “What? This old thing?”

We laugh.

After dinner, he tells me how he came to be on this island, spinning a tragic yarn of sinking ships and drowning loved ones. His golden eyes bore into me the entire time, never looking away. I’m overwhelmed by his stoic behaviour and I tell him that I’m impressed with this bravery.

He shrugs, dismissing my praise. “Let’s eat,” he says, changing the subject.

“Are you still hungry?” I jump up, my mind already spinning, concocting a special meal just for the Beast.

“Honey,” he whispers, “it’s time for lunch.”

I glance down at my bare wrist. How does he know what time it is? Besides, the sun went down hours ago. It must be at least ten o’clock.

“Honey?”

I look back up at him and the sun pierces my eyes, a sharp jab in the middle of my forehead. Pale blue eyes peer down at me, frowning with concern.

“Hon?”

I close my eyes again. Not that I don’t want to see my husband’s clean-shaven face, pinking from too much sun. But I want to melt back into that spell and curl up with the Beast. Just for a few moments.

I hear a lid snap open and he pours hand sanitizer into my hands.

“Wash up,” he says.

“I’m not hungry,” I mutter, as I rub the liquid over my hands. The smell of alcohol mixes with chlorine and coconut.

“Why not?”

I lay back down on the recliner and recall a crackling fire, a starlit night and the lustful promise of a god-like stranger.

“I just ate.”

Holiday Lemons

Today's muse: Seven Days Seven Answers

Tuesday's prompt was Checklist: A list of words will be accompanied by a scenario in which to use them.

Todays words: Sangria, Lost, Monkey, Book

Scenario: Tell me about your vacation.

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Holiday Lemons

Under the shelter of the covered porch, I stare across the expanse of green lawn barely visible through the pouring rain. What happened to the sunny day the Weather Man promised? Idiot, I mutter, cursing him under my breath.

Steven joins me, dragging with him two folding lounge chairs.

“It’ll be like we’re outside,” he says, “only drier.” He is over-enthusiastic. I know he’s trying to cheer me up, but he won’t succeed. Not because he can’t, but because I won’t let him.

“Whatever,” I mumble, with a shrug.

He pulls his Monkey Face, the one that always makes me laugh. But today it doesn’t. Today was supposed to be our special day. We don’t get a lot of time together, so whatever little time we do get is precious to us. Almost sacred. Our days off are like mini-vacations to us, planned with the same attention to detail as a three-month cruise.

Today we were planning on hiking through the Moraine, stopping for an elaborate picnic lunch and taking hundreds of pictures. Pictures of peaks and valleys bathed in brilliant sunshine.

Stupid rain.

I flop down on a lounge chair and snatch my book from the little wicker table. I open it to the bookmarked page with such violence that I crack the spine.

Steven clamps his lips between his teeth, wise enough to keep quiet. I glare at him, daring him to say something. He holds his hand up, palm facing me, thrusts it at me once. The message is clear: Wait!

As he walks back into the house, I release a heavy sigh loud enough for the neighbours to hear. Any hope for a romantic day with my husband is now lost.

Soon, the porch door creeks open. Steven backs in, hiding his burden as he walks over to the pair of antique milk crates that double as a table. He sets down what is obviously a tray and turns to face me, careful to block my view.

He bends down and takes my face in his hands, kisses me soundly with a loud smacking noise.

“I love you, you know.” He kisses me again. “Even though it’s raining.”

I roll my eyes. I’m determined to be grumpy, but I can feel my resolve cracking. He is, after all, trying very hard to cheer me up.

“And you know what they say, don’t you?”

I narrow my eyes. I may be weakening, but I’m in no mood for his silliness.

He grins at me. “When life hands you lemons...”

I raise an eyebrow. Is he serious? A lemonade cliche? I get up. I don’t want to listen to his crap. Not today.

Steven steps aside, exposing the tray he kept hidden from me. Neatly arranged on the ancient crates are two tall glasses standing sentry next to a large pitcher. More than a dozen lemon slices float in the dark liquid.

A huge chasm tears my resolve. I smile.

“Not lemonade,” I say, shaking my head.

“Lemonade?” He stares at me with mock disdain. “Who the hell wants to drink lemonade on a rainy day? No, my dear,” he says. “When life hands you lemons, you make Sangria.”

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Updated ...

This piece won over at Seven Days Seven Answers!

The Wild Card

Today's muse: Seven Days Seven Answers

I received a "Wild Card" award from Cate over at Seven Days Seven Answers. I've been a little less than inspired lately, but I think this may have broken through the block. Go check out her blog (but read my story first).

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The Wild Card

“And the winner of this year’s break-through novel is...”

Wild applause fills my ears as I make my way down the aisle. I lift my designer gown so I can walk, suppressing a maniacal giggle as I envision tripping on the too-long hem and falling flat on my face, ass in the air.

Oh yeah, I think, that would appear on You Tube in no time at all. The icing on the cake would be to pop up as though nothing happened and face the hundreds of people who wait for my acceptance speech and my left boob is hanging out.

I climb the stairs—manage to reach the top without stumbling—and take my award from the presenter. We air kiss.

“Loved the book, dahling,” she breathes in my ear. “Read it twice.”

The thrill of that simple sentence shoots up my spine and I smile my thanks. I don’t know who she is, but she read my book. Twice.

I place the golden award on the podium and face the crowd. Their applause is deafening, as though a jet engine has just fired up right next to me. I begin my speech, one that I have dreamed of giving for years, but no sound seems to come from my mouth. The audience is pounding their feet on the floor and shouting my name. If only they would be quiet, I think, they could hear me.

I lean closer to the microphone and my new best friend—The Two-Time Reader—stands beside me.

“I’ll help you,” she purrs, and leans across the podium. I think she’s going to move the microphone closer to me, but instead, she starts to lick my hand. At first I’m repulsed, then I realize that the moisture from her sandpaper tongue must be a conduit for the electricity. Of course, why didn’t I think of that?

As she continues to lick my hand, I shout into the microphone.

“Thank you! Thank you all so much!”

As though someone has flicked a light switch, the applause stops and there is nothing but silence. That’s much better, I think, now they can hear me.

The Two-Time Reader stops licking my hand. She stands up, grabs my shoulders and shakes me. My head snaps back and I close my eyes against the nausea that churns in my stomach.

“Are you ok?”

I open my eyes and stare in Jason’s worried face. He hovers over me, his hands firmly gripping my shoulders.

“What?”

Where’s The Two-Time Reader? We were going to discuss my book.

Jason shakes his head, his expression filled with pity.

“You were shouting ‘thank you’ over and over again.”

I nod. “Right. It was nothing. A bad dream.” And I roll over onto my side, my back toward Jason.

Ginger, my orange tabby, paws her way across the top of the bed and lays on the pillow next to my head. Her purring is like a jet engine in my ear.

Off in the distance, I recognize a popping sound. That, my friends, is the sound of my bubble bursting.