Expectation Unrealized

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Daily Prompt: Singing the Blues

We all feel down from time to time. How do you combat the blues? What’s one tip you can share with others that always helps to lift your spirits?

People! The blues feeds off loneliness. And if I’m around others who have the blues I look at them as a project. Be around people, talk to them, listen to them, help them, and if need be annoy them. The important thing is to think of others and not yourself. Consume yourself with caring and helping others. Yeah, but it doesn’t work for me. Try harder. If that don’t work there is always drugs, alcohol, or The Golden Gate Bridge. (I’m being funny.)

Anyway it seems that yesterday my short story was about a man named Parker who needed space to be introspective so he tossed his survival partner overboard. Today Parker finds dry land and is rescued. What else could a man want?

Expectation Unrealized

Seven more days past at sea. In the distance a patch of green emerged from the horizon. Parker slowly paddled toward it ever checking over his shoulder to use it as fixed point.

He knew it would take hours, perhaps most of the day to finally reach the shores.

He talked as if someone were with him.

“There is green so there must be water.”

“There will always be fish from the sea.”

“Coconuts will be and excellent source of needed vitamins.”

“If I find berries I’ll rub them on my skin, touch them to my lips, and hold them in my mouth to check for reactions.”

“I can start a fire and stir-fry some crispy bugs to sprinkle over seaweed or greens. And with some ingenuity I’m certain I can render oil from coconuts.”

As Parker pulled hard on the oars he envisioned with his imagination the fine meals to be prepared. He rationed for several days and was hungry most of the time. He imagined the harvest he might gain from the sea; clams, crabs, and fish. He thought about salads with plump sweet berries.

The rowing was easy because his thoughts were about creating and not just surviving.

He heard the sound of breakers and at last his raft hit bottom. He sprung from the raft like young goat in spring. He tugged the raft to shore and collapsed in it. He was exhausted beyond reason or movement. Falling a sleep would be inaccurate, it was more akin to passing out from exhaustion.

Later, much later, one day, two days, a week; Parker did not know, but he was awakened by two strangers. One, a face of a man beaming brightly. The other, a woman’s full of concern and compassion.

“We have steaks,” the man said. “And plenty of other foods.”

“There is much to drink,” The woman said. “You are now safe with us. We will take care of you. When was the last time you had a beer?”

“Yes,” the man said. “We have friend chicken remaining from last night. In moments we can have feast for you.”

Parker dazed and confused looked at them oddly. “I was kind of hoping for some stir-fried grubs.”

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19 Comments

  1. Pingback: The Wandering Poet
  2. 😀 That made me laugh! (Though I did wonder for a moment whether it was all going a bit macabre with the mention of ‘friend chicken’.) Have you read Pincher Martin? Creepy!

Blather away, if you like.

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