The ship had capsized a night before. Mayday calls weren't answered, at least not on time. Perhaps because the captain who called didn't give adequate details before drowning. People died. The ship was gone without a trace, gravity showing its earthly omnipresence. When rescue copters and boats arrived, the sea was already hissing with satisfaction, roaring with defiance each time the waves moved and crashed at the shores. Everyone aboard the Space B ship had just disappeared, as many as fifteen thousand. The belly of the sea had been overfed in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. Rescue copters and ships returned, mission unaccomplished. The gist was that the almost infallible ship was bombed by international enemies of progress. But a week later, the sea saw a man rise from its belly. The man, in a bid to survive, swam desperately towards the shores. He looked horrified. He couldn't imagine being dead. He couldn't imagine being a juicy bite for sharks nor was he ready to rot several nautical miles beneath. He swam, on and on, beating the waters furiously. With unquantifiable strength and fear, it was a miracle that he made it up alive. He knew this and also knew he must make good use of the luck given to him. He swam, he swam, he swam. His breathing was fast and showed signs of fatigue. But yet still, he swam and never stopped. He knew he needed to survive. He knew he had one life to live. He swam and swam and swam. Finally, by dint of hardwork and faith, he made it to the shores. He reached there exhausted and temporarily out of his mind. He lay on his back and tried to catch his breath, cursing himself and the sea softly. His stomach appeared engorged, perhaps he had swallowed too much water. He was here alone. He was here all by himself, lost and alive. The gigantic Space B ship had suddenly disappointed for the first time since its creation. He had also boarded the famous ship for the first time. There on the ground, his bloodshot eyes blinked now and then. The sun was yet to be out in its shining glory — it was just early morning. He felt something wasn't right in his trousers. He quickly put his hand through his zipper and fought to stop his discomfort. Out of the zipper came a fierce-looking small fish. Angrily, he raised his other hand and crushed the fish with his two palms. Impulsively, or just a result of plain hunger, he bit off the fish's head and began to extricate its flesh — flesh which found its way into his mouth from time to time till the fish was nothing but a long bone, till the fish was gone. With pain, he tried to lay himself on his side. He managed to do that, spitting out little bones from his mouth. Everything was coming to his mind now with a cold feat of disbelief. HE WAS THE ONLY SURVIVOR AMONGST FIFTEEN THOUSAND PASSENGERS. He rubbed his eyes and tried to get up. He placed his two hands on the ground and raised himself slowly with a groan. Gradually, he stood. Standing slightly erect on his feet now, he began to look around. He combed the environment surrounding him with his eyes. He knew he was lost on this strange island. He could hear the noises of birds and the noises of animals he couldn't decipher. He looked back just in time to duck a big strange bird charging towards him. He stood as the bird flew past and cursed it. He had wanted to walk away when he saw the bird charging towards him again. With anger and defense on his mind, he took a stance and grabbed its strong wing. In the fight that ensued, he angrily broke the bones of the wing in his grip and smashed the bird on the ground, denying it the opportunity to use the beak it had turned towards him. The bird began burrowing a hole in the process. He charged towards it immediately and stood on its neck. This was it — he had killed a stubborn strange bird. He stepped back and watched it take its last breath. He chuckled and began to drag the bird with him as he navigated his newfound environment. He stopped briefly and folded up the bottom of his trousers. He rose and continued. He found a coconut tree and went to rest under it. Feeling a sharp pain in his crotch he shouted and ran from the tree, removing his trousers in the process. Inside his boxers was a crab. He brought out the thing and flung it thoughtlessly. He was still in pain, so he held his crotch and yelled. There he stood, looking here and there till the pain subsided. He returned to the coconut tree afterwards, where he sat in his boxers and thought about his life. And on trying to sit comfortably, he placed his hand mistakenly on the neck of the strange bird with the resultant effect being that a jutted-out bone injured him. He let out an umph cry and cursed the bird. Meanwhile, somewhere in America, a man and his clay son were the most integral element of the news making the rounds. "This is crazy," people were saying. "How could he allow his mind to think such crazy idea," others said. Everyone criticized until they heard the real story, the motive behind his creation of a clay son. The backup story that started making the rounds alongside the first news was that the man had lost his son to a ship accident. He was his only son and child. He was traveling to Brussels, from Connecticut, for his master's program. The man had sold plots of land to enable his son's traveling and studies. Grief is a dangerous thing, grief is grief, grief is unquantifiable. He didn't know how to manage his growing grief. The clay son was the only way out, was the only way out for him. Grief is a dangerous thing. And so when people heard the backup story, they held their wagging tongues — but not completely, because people will always be people. With no matchbox to make fire, he ate some of the bird raw. I hope I am not turning into a savage, he said to himself. He felt devastated and mentally unwound, the lyricality of it all a sad tone in the vast hall of his existence. He wondered how long he could last on the island. He wondered if he would make it out of this place, or if his body would be another contribution to the earth and manure for the trees and grasses. He beat his chest and assured himself that he was American — body, soul and mind — that he must show the resilience and strength Americans are known for. He knew too well the gains of wearing his American heritage like a necklace round his neck. He missed home. He missed the fecundity and liveliness of his dreams and ambition. He missed everything that added to his definition of humanness. He missed himself, because right now it felt like he wasn't himself. He missed his dad. He missed Shantella, his betrothed. He missed everything. He picked his trousers off the ground and tied them round his waist. The sun was yet to rise. He picked a stick he saw and set about to explore the lonely island. It was the millennium of supercars, millennium of eventful express cars. They ran on the needful, on four-lane roads designed to permit one car at a time. The cars had stations that operated like train stations. It was the era of the fast cars. The cars were just the bomb, and people who patronised them were the brave and adventurous. It was the car for anyone who had his money and in urgent need of reaching his destination faster. These cars could carry as many as eight persons. Fast and reliable, with competent drivers. Fast cars, fast journeys. All fast everything.
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