Once upon a time there was a deep blue ocean. In this vast expanse of water was a speck of green surrounded by a ring of yellow sand. Upon this sand was a single figure, stooped under the weight of branches on his back. His hair was long and straggled, his clothes ragged and torn, and his skin weathered and burned.
Everyday, he woke and climbed out of the aircraft tail, checked the horizon, then prepared yet another breakfast of fish. Then, like a worker ant, he would shuffle into the woods and return with more wood on his back. Dropping it heavily on the ever increasing pile, he would then turn and scan the wide blue horizon. Motionless for a moment. Then, not seeing what he was searching for, he would turn and begin again.
One day, while he was resting under the aluminium tail, he observed a strange cloud in the distance. Very low in the sky, it appeared to be moving. Slowly, like a white whale, it glided across the horizon. The man jumped up. Ran to the beach and stared intently. The shape became clearer, more angular, more human.
Because of that, he ran to his pile of branches and twigs, lifted out his last match, and stuck it. The flame burst into life with a flash and the man protected it like it was his life. Gently moving the delicate dancing light towards the kindling he noticed his hand was shaking. The flame dropped. The kindle smoldered. Then, slowly and inevitably, like the rising of the sun, the wood burned and thick smoke rose into the sky.
Until finally, after what seemed like an age, the long white ship started turning. He stood on the beach, heart attempting to escape from his chest, fists clenched, willing the ship closer. And it came closer. Until it stopped and ejected a smaller white boat. A faster white boat. Within a few minutes his months of isolation was over and, once again, he was among the living.
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