Our Creative Writing Competition, “Stranded on a Desert Island,” invited young writers to explore themes of survival, isolation, and discovery. We are delighted to be now working with students from Kibworth Mead.
I blink, stretch out on the sand …
Sand? Where am I?
It all comes flooding back. The storm, the boat, the lifeboat… Mum and Dad! Where were they and where was I?
The sun beats down. I wander around. I’m on an island in the middle of nowhere with no place and no one to go to. There’s a small mountain and a pool where a spring has flowed to. There’s a forest and hut beside it.
Now what to do?
I’m stuck here now. I begin to shape a life here. There’s the mountain spring for water, the hut for shelter, the animals in the woods for food- not that I’d want to eat them.
The hut is small and bare, with a bed and straight-backed chair. There’s also a circle for a fire. It could be cosy. I look under the bed where I see a box, which I open. Inside, there are matches which I keep for later. I find firewood and start a fire.
As the sun sets, I settle down and eat a rabbit I caught. I sigh. This place was already here, fully built and furnished. Who by? I wonder as I climb into the bed and close my eyes. Who by?
I wake with the sun to drink from the spring. As I leave the woods, I trip, and realise that I fell over a pot. I pick it up and carry on. I fill it with water and carry it back. Yes! The perfect water carrier. With this, I only need two trips a day!
As dusk settles, I’m roasting a hog.
It’s strange, I found a soft block earlier today with mud all over. As I eat, I place it near the fire so that the mud melts off. There seems to be strange items all over the forest. Yesterday I found a bow and arrow, which I used to hunt my rabbit and hog.
Oh, well, I think. And I go to bed, wondering.
I look at the block-not block, book! The mud must’ve melted during the night. The cover is red and worn, the inside is covered in scribbles. As I look closer, they become handwritten words! This is a diary, I’m sure. And maybe, just maybe, it might have a way out.
I look at the first page, yet it seems to be written by an old man. It’s dated 1903 and it looks like he was cruising with a lady-friend. I flip the pages. They visited, built the hut and left. So much for a way out.
I’m re-reading the diary. It may not contain a rescue plan, but it does have lots of small tips, such as using dry firewood (to provide more heat). I read eagerly, soaking up every word. The sun sets, I’ve tried out multiple tips-I’m worn out.
I go for water. Holding the pot under the spring, I hear a honking sound- a boat’s horn! I race to the beach and stare out to sea. There it is! I build a fire- not caring if it’s made with wet or dry wood. A figure scales down a rope that’s hanging over the side. The figure jumps into a rowing boat and begins to row towards me. When it arrives, I step in, and a young man retakes the oars. We sit in silence and, when I reach the boat, a burst of noise hits my ears. It’s overpowering! I realise that I’d grown used to the peace and quiet of the island- but at least I’m back in society and headed home.
