Pusser Island - A Writer's Retreat

[chanaud]

Hidden deep in the Caribbean, in the midst of cluttered British Virgin Islands, lies a tiny isle named, Pusser Island. This island is only 9 miles long and one mile wide. It has enough space for a row of one bedroom Villas, a 24 hour restaurant, Rum Runners and an airport converted from an old historic house with an added airstrip.

http://www.pussers.com/images/Map-Ernies-Carib.jpg

The Villas are simple wooden one bedroom with a tiny kitchenette and an oversized bathroom. Each are equipped with the barest necessities such as bed, dresser and writing desk and chair. You will not find any lavish decorating by the owner. Only the long-term renters will add a personal item such as a favorite picture. Outside of each villa is the most spectacular oversized wrap around wooden deck with steps leading down to the white sand just steps away from the turquoise ocean.

Rum Runners has a 24 hour grill. Breakfast and lunch are simple so you will never find anything lavish like Eggs Benedict. Evening meals are a little more lavish. You can order a wide array of simple hamburgers to the catch of the day to the chef’s special, which is usually the most delectable Caribbean spiced dish.

On one side of the island is a field of untouched land where wild sugar canes grow like weeds. Many have heard rumors of a rum distillery hidden deep behind the wilds. None has yet proven the distillery rumor for there is not a path through the wild sugar canes and anyone who dares to walk through will only end up dying a quick death for the razor sharp canes can slice a man’s leg in two.

You will not find Pusser Island advertised anywhere. It doesn’t need to be. Over the course of the years, it’s become a popular retreat among authors. It’s been rumored, Hemingway wrote most of his latest works here in Pusser Island instead of Cuba. Years later, it’s a non spoken, well known secret among writer’s elite that Pusser Island is the place to hangout.

http://www.pussers.com/images/MarinaCayAerial-nav.jpg


OOC: All is welcome. You don’t have to hook up with anyone if you feel like being alone. You can stay for one day or live on the island for the rest of your remaining days. The only rule I am imposing is that writers be mindful of frequent posts and not post more than 3 times a day. This will give the others to follow along the story and not worry the thread will be hijacked. So, please make every post count. Enjoy your stay!

http://www.pussers.com/images/web-open-sunset.jpg

 

[chanaud]

Sophie Wallace, Proprietor of Pusser Island

Many rumors have circulated in hush voices regarding how Sophie had come to acquire this little piece of paradise. Some stated she inherited it from a nameless, wealthy uncle. Others believed she won it at a five-card stud poker game in Santa Monico. A few squashed those rumors and circulated one of their own - that it was a gift from a crowned King for being a long-term mistress. Many people wouldn’t dare ask Sophie. Very few brave souls did and were only given a secretive smile and a quick change of subject as an answer. However Sophie came to owning this remote island paradise doesn’t matter for it has become the Garden of Eden for for many who requires inspiration.

On a bad day, Sophie looks to be about in her early 40s. On a good day, she can pass as late 20s. Today is a good day.

She woke early beating the sun without her usual hangover. Not one to waste a beautiful sunrise, Sophie pulled her mass of red curls back into a high ponytail, threw on a pair of cotton white shorts and a tie dyed t-shirt without bothering with any undergarments. Outside of her single bedroom rustic house, she breathed deeply allowing the cool sea air fill her lungs. Her nipples hardened immediately. The ocean breeze always did that to her. Invigorated, Sophie stretched her tight, sleepy muscles. Twenty minutes later, off she went down the shoreline, her Nike’s kicking back white, soft sand, and her red ponytail swinging with each long stride.

 

[darrenfate]

Alan Girard

Suddenly at 40, he had it all. Business success exceeding his expectations of being part the UMC - Bob Seger slang for the upper middle class. He had been blessed with the kind of business acumen that allowed him to predict and manage a buyer's behavior. Steady employement was his reward.

He had it all - that is except for happiness and personal fulfillment. Too young for the 60s, he had often thought of how intellectually restless he had become. A simple Jimmy Buffett tune played one day that changed his life. Rather obscure to all but the most avid parrott heads, He Went to Paris changed Alan's life.

The song is a wistful account of a young man that left for the Paris of the roaring 20s to "find answers to questions that bothered him so". This was an intellectual feeding ground for artists and writers that would literally change the world. The so called Lost Generation. Hemingway wrote The Sun Also Rises there, his first novel. Fitzgerald The Great Gatsby . Joyce finished Ulysses . Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein, Ford Maddox Ford, all were part of the Paris scene. Then there was the art. Cubism and Picasso. Ahh that was living. Wide open lives. Sex. Highs and Lows. The simple joy of living. <sigh>.

Where, Alan thought, was such a place to be had today? New York was well, too New York. LA - too transcendental. Paris now too jaded stuck in the past. He knew that he wanted time for himself to think, to write, to be part of a community of other like minded creative souls. He happened across the tiny story about Pusser's Island, buried in the travel section of his large daily and just knew it was his ticket to freedom. Who was this mysterious Sophie Wallace and was this writer's retreat real? He just had to find out.

He quit the next day. Put all his stuff in storage, paid two years in advance and hopped the next Spirit airlines flight to Miami. From there to the island. He had no plan. He was in luck, the villas still surprisingly had vacancies, although the clerk looked at him strangely when he said he had no departure date yet in mind. Now he stared out at the water, the bluest azure blue he had ever seen. A Captain and Coke in his hand, he could no longer surpress the joy. He shouted to no one in particular -

"Yes wahoo, Yes! Look out world the new me is coming !!"

 

[Thor's Hammer]

Thor Storch

OOC: Wealthy beyond most people's dreams, erudite, a maker of Kings, Thor was searching for something that had eluded him most of his life. Thor was an internationalist, fluent in five languages, and had travelled most of the globe. His businesses were managed by competent, albeit ruthless employees. Thor never crossed the line of illegality, but he was usually close most of the time. Thor's personal assistant in his Zurich headquarters had run across a yellowed newspaper article about a tiny Carribean island. He suggested that Thor should take a vacation to recharge his batteries. Since Thor had become jaded to the Rivera scene, a different venue appealed to him.

Personally Thor was a commanding figure. His silver hair complemented his piercing blue eyes. He was fit and looked 10 years younger than his age. Thor was a hedonist......and enjoyed the chase. However, his great wealth caused him to be standoffish, almost remote. On the spur of the moment Thor had his G-IV take him to Ft Lauderdale. A short taxi ride to North Perry Airport brought him to Hollywood. His ever efficient assistant had purchased a twin Comanche.....one of Thor's old loves in aviation. The light twin Piper was a classic....and Thor loved to fly.

IC: "North Perry Tower, Twin Comanche 8616 Yankee is ready, niner right." As the clearance echoed in the headset, the twin Lycomings roared their siren song and I lifted off, tucking the gear up at 200.' The flight would take about five hours, well with the range of the tip-tanked twin. My able assistant told me he had booked a villa for six months. He also told me that the place was reputed to be a writers' retreat. My normal circles did not include artistic types...so it might be interesting.

I dialed in the GPS setting for Pusser and let the autopilot run the show. The Caribbean was as beautiful as ever. The exceptionally clear water had every shade of blue and green imaginable. A trivial adjustment of the prop control put the left engine in perfect sync.....and I settled back for the relatively short trip to Pusser Island.

 

[Mayas_Fury]

Maya Ellison

Her slender, sandaled feet sank into the pure sand as she stepped off of the shoddy excuse for a boat and onto Pusser Island. Carrying only a simple embroidered cloth backpack and a grey camera bag across one shoulder, she nodded a thanks to the boatman as he sped off showering her in a spray of ocean mist. The dense salty water clung fast to the cascade of raven curls that framed her curvy torso. The white cotton t-shirt and denim shorts she wore did little to hide her wealth of bronzed skin. At the tender age of 24 she was not yet fully aware of the feminine wiles her supple form posessed. Emerald eyes that rivaled the rich waters surrounding the island gazed about taking in her home away from home.

Her Editor had booked one of the villas on this place in hopes that it might 'inspire her photography to greatness', or something of the like. She chuckled to herself as she thought about just how stupid he sounded, but she was greatful for the paid vacation nonetheless. She was to take as long as needed to fill a few pages of several upcoming issues of the magazine with astonishing pictures and a few well chosen words meant to describe them. She really hadn't been given much instruction save that, and of course she hadn't the slightest clue where to begin.

For her photography was more than just, "oh look what a pretty ..." 'click'. It was truly an artform worth investing one's heart and soul into. When asked to describe her portfolio with so many words she always remembered having more difficulty with that than with deciding which works to include in it to begin with.

After having a forseeably uneventful check in, she headed to her assigned villa by way of the awe-inspiring beach that was to be her front lawn for the next however long. Stooping to remove her flimsy sandals she reveled in the soft squeak of the sand between her toes.

"Well Maya dear, enjoy paradise while it lasts."

 

[ariosto]

Woodrow 'Lance' Barton



For Woodrow "Lance" Barton, Pusser Island was a last resort. He'd come here either to revitalize his writing or drink himself to death. The word was out that this was a good place for either one. Thirty years ago his string of novels based on the fantasy existence of his randy hero Karl Tabor on the sex crazy planet of VaginaPrime had struck a nerve among the post hippy generation who read each new book with an almost cultish avidity. The risqué nature of the content kept it from Hollywood and a poor contract deal with his publisher kept Barton from getting rich.
Seven novels in yearly progression beginning with Tabor on the Planet of the Amazons and ending with Sex God of the Lust Planet had each sold less than the previous one and then had come the Eighties...

Two more novels had made it to the bookstores...and stayed there as examples of some of the most politicaly incorrect writing of the 20th century. They slowly gathered dust inspite of their lurid titles and jackets, until returned to the publisher who did
not renew Barton's contract. The tenth Tabor novel ended up in the trash can of the seedy flat he was renting on the Lower east side.

In the spring of 1987, Woodrow had to get a job for the first time in 15 years.
Driving eighteen wheelers from New Jersey to Los Angeles was not exactly the same as being king of an exotic nation of nymphomaniacs but it had some advantages and beat a desk job by a long shot.

He'd read about Pusser Island in the Newspaper last summer and it piqued his curiosity. He'd tried writing a story again and was shocked when it was accepted by one of the SF monthlies. Then he'd written another and another and another...all rejected. His drinking habit became worse and he found the bottle a good alternative to the keyboard. Spring came again, and another tiny mention of an artists colony called Pusser Island. With great trepidation he picked up the phone and called Sly Bennet his old agent. They hadn't spoken in over ten years.

Yes Sly had heard of Pusser Island... "It might be just what you need...and say it's be about time to bring back that Tabor guy, for a new generation, you know? hehe...hang on I'll get you a number to call..."

So now standing in the bow of the launch watching this little emerald slice of Paradise emerging from the azure sea, Lance Barton at 54, teeters on the brink of his own destiny...again.

 

[papillon24]

Deidra Collins

'What a waist I thought as the small rickety plane landed on the Island not far from the resort where I was to spend my Vacation.

This was supposed to be my honeymoon but no, that jerk had to go off with my sister. Well why let a great vacation go to waist. Connor had planed this trip as a surprise but I found out the day he left the apartment. Two round trip tickets to Pusser Island.

Quickly I packed my things and leap abaord for the best recovery period I possibly could manage. Only 22 and left for a younger woman.

I decended down the steps of the plane with a small duffle bag slung over my shoulder. A pair of loose white cotton pants settled along my slender hips tied off with a little leather belt. Toped off with a black tank I was ready to start over as a New woman.

Quickly I checked in at the front and settled myself in my room. I tied my auburn hair off and up out of the wat with a green band to match my eyes.

"There Deidra, your ready to start a new" speaking to the mirrow image in front of me.

I wandered down the beach and sat on an old wooden boat in the shade to read a book, but it was no use. My mind seemed to drift and concentrate on the incredible blue of the water and the mysery of this island.

"No wonder Connor wanted to come here" as a sigh escaped my lips.

 

[BigDawg69]

The sea gave birth to the great burning sun
*RIIIP*

*CRANK CRANK CRANK*

The sun slowly rose from the azure sea. A rianbow of colors reflected in the sky.

*DING, CRANK*

*DING, CRANK*
Soft sea breezes blew in the gentle smell of her hair as

*DING, CRANK*

she ran along the water's edge.

<sigh>

Jackson Littlejon ripped the page from the typewriter once more and crumpled it to the floor. It rolled slowly to a stop among the countless others that littered the interior of his already cluttered one room hut. Stacks of books piled eight and ten high filled every nook and craney. Tablets of paper with two or three sentences strewn about the room. Old coffee mugs filled with pens and pencils on the two tables. His small writing desk cluttered with notes and sketches. Three easels with half finshed sketches and paintings left unattended by the two windows.

Jackson stood slowly from his old manual typewriter and stretched his aching muscles. He moved to the doorway and leaned there looking out at the wonderous sea. He nodded to Sophie as she jogged by and retreated into his hut. Collapsing on the bed, Jackson drifted off to a deep sleep of amzing adn colorful dreams. The type of dreams that only the greatest of artist could render, and yet his conscious remembered nothing.

As his head lowered to the pillow and the brown curls of his unkept hair settled about his face. Jackson glimpsed out at the world he no longer was a part of, as his eyes slowly shut. Drifting into a wonderous sleep brought on by 20 hours of straight "creativity" Jackson was suddenly aware of the bristled beard sprouting about his face.

As his subconscious mind took over, great ships of years gone by collected in his mind. A sea battle roared across a small bay overlooked by a giant stone fortress. Cannons thundered, and smoke filled the evening air. Timber cracked as mighty masts fell neath the constant barrage of spherical iron flashing through the air. Men leaped from ships and made for shore, only to be shot down in the water by the onslaught of musket fire. High atop the parapit a great general looked down across the watery battlefield. He heaved a sigh as a majestic triple mast schooner gave herself unto the sea. The thunder of cannons underscored by the sweeping of an orchestra of violins and clashing cymbols. The triumph of horns as another gallion began to break apart.

Jackson awoke suddenly and drifted to his typewriter. Reaching for a pad instead he began to pen his thoughts. All he could remember was a sea battle with some ships and cannons. He flopped the pad back down on the Power Book his niece had sent him, still never booted. He resigned himself with his head on his arms. Slowly his eyes closed, and he drifted once again to sleep sitting at his desk.

The sea breeze blew gently through his hut softly rustling his papers. Jackson sank into a deep sleep. His body sat motionless to the oncoming day.

 

[MorgaineLaFay]

Tallie Castella

Tallie stepped out onto her oversized wrap around wooden deck. A cup of coffee in her hand. She gazed out at the water as the waves lapped along the shore. Setting her mug down on the rail, she stretch her long lean arms above her head into the air. Closing her dark eyes and inhaled the salty morning air. With her dark olive skin, raven silky hair that reached the small of her back, and vibrant green eyes, she looked more native to the hidden island then anyone else.

Tallie Castella, 32, born in Italy. Heir to the Castella wine fortune. Tallie had come to Pusser Island by way of a sailing excursion. That was four years ago. It was rumored in her family that her grandfather had come here years ago. Marcello Castella. He was famous for two things in his life. His wine and his poetry. Tallie an aspiring writer herself, wasn’t famous for anything. The only thing she had written in the last two years that had been read by anyone else was the short order food tickets she jotted down at the Rum Runners 24 hour Grill.

Tallie had started working there one morning as a favor. She didn’t need the work. She came here to escape. Find herself in her writing. Yet two years later, she found her way back to the restaurant every morning at 7:30 on the dot to work the morning shift.

She kept a small leather bound journal behind the counter. And as she walked along the counter bar refilling coffee cups in the morning hours she would listen to the tales that where woven here. From her perch she could over hear several conversations at once. And in between serving morning meals she would feverishly scribble down bits and pieces over heard here.

 

[chanaud]

Sophie Wallace

Sophie loved running hard. Each hard pound of her footsteps erased a piece of consciousness until her mind was free from all. It was the only time she was able to think of her with a clear mind. Lately, it was the only time she made the most vital decisions of her life.

As she ran along the shoreline, several voices reminded her of new tasks. The plane overhead flying too low for comfort warned her of a new visitor, another jet setting playboy who will come in to convert this tiny paradise into another jet setting campground for the new generation of Euro Trash. Along the way, a new voice called out to none in particular. She couldn’t make out the words because the seagulls answered back with their own similar cries.

After a couple of miles, Sophie slowed to a fast walk checking her pulse on her wrist. Sweat dripped freely forming a dark V down her breast and dark circles around her armpits. Satisfied, her pace slowed to a normal pace. She continued to march forward, her shiny, red face never wavering, missing the most delightful time of the day - the sunrise.

Sophie turned abruptly and marched towards a palm tree. With an untrained eye, it looks like any other tropical palm tree. But for some reason, Sophie signaled this one. Her fingers traced the trunk, searching for something. When she found it her eyes closed, she breathed in deeply while her forefinger traced a heart. When her ritual ended, she turned abruptly once more and turned to the sea.

Sophie waded into the turquoise water fully clothed. When the cool salty water was waist deep, she lifted her stiff arms above her head and formed a perfect swan dive into a crashing wave.

Half-hour later, Sophie emerged from the Atlantic Ocean, dripping wet. Her body visible for all to see, she walked brazenly up the doorsteps to her house. After a long refreshing shower and a change to a casual pair of khakis and a red bikini top visible under a white linen camp shirt, Sophie walked quietly in Rum Runners and settled in a tiny round table on the outside patio and waited for her usual black coffee.

 

[Thor's Hammer]

Thor Storch

As I tipped the plane over on one wing, I spied a woman running on the pristine beach. At 1500' she was indistinct, but it seemed as though she was familiar.

Shaking my head, I thumbed the mike......"Pusser Unicom, Twin Comanche 8616 Yankee, planning on landing on 22." There was no tower, of course, but safe procedure called for a transmission in the blind to announce yourself at an uncontrolled field. To my surprise a voice came through the speaker. "16 Yankee winds favor runway 22. We will have transportation at the strip when you land." Apparently my able personal assistant outdid himself.

I banked again, pushed the mixture to full rich, propellor controls to landing position, and dropped the gear. "Three green, GUMP." The pilots' prelanding checklist ran through my memory. "Gas, undercarriage, mixture, prop." I lined up on what my chart said was a 3000' runway and heard the satisfying 'chirp' as the wheels touched down. I rolled out to the shack that served as an office and saw an electric cart approaching - no doubt my transportation to the hotel.

 

[Mayas_Fury]

Maya

Her uncanny nack for being a teasor-mouse began in her early years as a theatric stage hand. This well practiced art served her now as the soft click of her shutter lense exposed the form of the atheletic woman to her film. While the action of being behind the lense suited a voyeuristic lifestyle, Maya comforted herself in knowing she would later approach the subject to inform her inclusion in the landscape portraits and of course garner her permission.

Maya had become more of an opportunist while remaining in the homey comfort of her soft outter shell. Her trusty Nikon FM10 an everconstant companion allowing her to capture life with image as she wasn't able to place her thoughts through a pen's tip. One last satisfying snap as a lowflying plane could be heard shattering the ocean's tranquility. She shook her head softly, her attention returning to the now empty beach scape. Her subject had continued on.

Stepping away from the lush tropical vegetation, her stomach made it's disapproval of her known with a loud, embarrasing squeal. She made her way to the little on-island grill to sate her appetite with ... a grilled cheese sandwich perhaps. Yes that sounded exotic enough to suit her tastes.

Catching a local plant or two and immortalizing them through the aparture of her camera, she approached the outside of the building lovingly tucking her 'friend' in it's grey cloth bag as she entered. Her eyes settled on a patio seat in the shade, rare as that seemed in this locale. She ordered her originally decided fare and tacked on a fresh lemonade to further draw her back into her childhood as it were.

Shortly after enjoying her lite lunch, soft emeralds re-captured the earlier image entombed on her film, the runner from the beach. She stood slowly, almost hesitantly and followed her to her table. Her soft voice accompanied by a touch of a southern accent as she extended a sun bronzed hand to the woman.

"Hi, I'm Maya Ellison. I know this may seem a bit strange but, I wanted to know if you would consent to having your picture in the magazine I work for? I was sort of inspired by your run earlier and took a few shots. You are welcome to preview them first if you like. I really think they'll turn out great."

 

[Baron]

Eric

What were words? Letters. What were letters? Symbols representing sound.

Sounds! What were sounds? Twitches of the mouth, the throat, the lungs.

Damnit, poetry was too difficult. It could be broken down too far, could fall apart if one weren't careful. He was no decontructionist, no vandal.

But bareful. But what did he know for careful? It wasn't just the symbols, the sounds, he had to manipulate. There had to be the passion too.

Passion. He hadn't felt passion in years. Had no emotion. Never had, never except--

I never wanted you to leave, he thought. The memory of her hitting him full force. You completed me perfectly. Now you are gone.

So many human things got in the way of living: fear, jealousy, growing older, growing apart. Who could blame the Biblical Job for shaking his fist at the sky, hmm? Not he.

---

The old Portuguese fisherman sailed his motorized fishing boat towards the beckoning cay of the hidden writer's bay. He took a long, careful chew of tobacco, easy motions that fit entirely within the compass of his universe. Passengers were little more than cargo to him, this anglo was no exception.

Cesaro was amused by his passenger's antics, nonetheless. The young man was probably in his early thirties, of average height and slender build, and certainly his fair skin was unused to the tropics. Blue eyes too, the fool eschewed sunglasses. The loose sleeveless t-shirt left freckled shoulders exposed, the worn jean shorts hugged lightly tanned thighs.

Not a bad kid, just another Americano with too much time and too much worry. Cesaro let his boat ply ahead. Just then there was a jerk on the aft fishing pole. Together, the old fisherman and his guest began to reel.

---

Half a day later, the old fishing vessel anchored lazily offshore. Cesaro shook Eric's hand, Eric took his bag over his shoulder and splashed through the shallows towards the house. With a final benediction, Cesaro lifted anchor and shoved off.

 

[Phoenix]

Jaeson Phoenix:

I frigging hate planes. I know this is suppoosed to be a lavish private jet and all but after seeing how Aaliyah died in one of these things I was kind of worried. It had been two whole years since I took time off from work but my editors thought a break was warranted and needed. After all for those two years I was one of the magazine writers in New York, but lately my sales started slipping and my writing was becoming too interwoven and confusing. So my editors decided that this trip had to happen and there was no two ways about it.


I hated vacations because I was always paranoid about someone coming along and replace me. After all there are lot of up and coming young writers out there who would sell their soul to take my spot. I was admant about not taking a vacation however after a long drawn out arguement with my agent Stanley it was decided that I would go to some remote island known for attracting people of a creative spectrum.

As the plane touched down I got my things and catch at cab to the to the hotel.

Jaeson Pheonix

 

[MorgaineLaFay]

Tallie placed the grill cheese sandwich in front of the pretty young woman. Her long tanned legs carrying her across the deck towards Sophie, fresh pot of coffee in hand. She paused in front of her table, tilting her head, squinting into the sun. A new visitor was arriving. Tallie’s face, sharp and sculpted with two incredible dimples smiled down at Sophie.

Tallie made several trips from the kitchen to the deck that morning. She wasn’t in any hurry. And it didn’t appear anyone else was either.

She walked back through the wide opening, sat up on the counter, her leather journal in hand. She glanced over at the clock on the wall...her shift was over. Her dark eyes fixed on the Sophie and the new young woman talking to her.

 

[MorgaineLaFay]

double post..sorry

 

[ariosto]

Lance Barton


The furnishings were basic.
That was no lie but the bed was comfortabe, the desk and typewriter perfectly functional...Typewriter! (Do people still use those?!)
The bathroom was clean, there were no closets but hell he'd lived out of suitcases more than once in his life.

Woodrow threw the luggage on the bed and walked out onto the verandah...a magnificent, breathtaking view of swaying palms, white sand beach, cerulian sea and periwinkle sky laced with fleecy clouds was spread before him.
A small twin engine plane was coming in low from the mainland...more guests no doubt.

A petite good looking was woman sitting on an upturned boat not to far away...
"Hey there!" he called, but the wind snatched his words and she probably never heard them.
She was pretty though...
He thought of walking over to her and introducing himself but decided to wait a bit, maybe freshen up first. There was a piece of blank white paper in the typewriter. It beckoned to him, waiting...
He sat down. The chair was comfortable...he typed a line.

abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvxyz

Barton smiled. The machine was old but it worked with smooth efficiancy. Yeah he could work here all right...
The W... Damnit he'd left out the 'W'! Now what kind of writer doesn't know the alphabet!

He smiled and pushed back...a tired writer.
OK, there was a lot to do but first things first.
He new exactly what he needed right now to get the creative juices flowing again.

________________________________________


"Gin and Tonic please, extra lime. Tangueray if you have it."
The big black bartender smiled and gave him a thumbs up. Barton swung around and surveyed the cool tropical interior of the bar. Two very atractive women were talking at a nearbye table. One of them had a delightful Southern drawl.
The G&T arrived and he quickly downed half of it.
The first drink of the day always gave him a rush of energy and good feelings.
"Hello", he said walking up to the table.
I'm Lance Barton. Are you both as new here as I am?"

 

[chanaud]

Sophie Wallace

Sophie sat at her favorite table, her head buried deep in an old-fashioned handwritten green ledger. Distracted easily by either the sound of the crashing waves, a sound from the kitchen or of sheer boredom, she looked up often with her eyebrows tied into a furled knot to take a sip of her dark, Caribbean coffee. When her eyes found the ocean, her face softened. Her eyes gazed back and forth across the sea as if she was searching for someone or something.

When she finished marking a column with her red ink pen, a soft southern nightingale voice interrupted her. It took a few long seconds for Sophie to glance up. With a sigh, she set the red pen down and looked deep in her guest’s eyes and found her intense eyes. An artist's eyes. Shaken, Sophie forgot to introduce herself.

I’m flattered, dear but I must decline. There’s nothing against you or your magazine, but I wish to keep my anonymity as long as possible.

Another guest approached us, interrupting us. Grateful for the interruption, Sophie gave him a warm smile. It’s going to be a busy day. Sophie excused herself, Please excuse me, I must be on my way.

She stood up and gathered her books. With a wide smile, she picked up her mug, Please, sit. Breakfast is on me. Just tell your server Sophie okay’d it. Welcome to Pusser…

Without waiting for a response, Sophie walked away. As she passed the counter, she had to smile warmly. Tallie’s head was buried deep in her constant companion, her worn leather journal. Not wanting to disturb her, she passed her quietly and made her way to the kitchen to check on the daily special.

 

[darrenfate]

Alan

Alan slowly wound down from the euphoria of just being here. He had truly burned some bridges behind him to get here, for isn't that what committment is really all about? Foreclosing other options to focus on one thing. He thought of the old joke, about a pig and a chicken. For breakfast, a chicken is a player by providing the eggs. To give the ham though, the pig is Committed . Alan had no job to go back too, and since his house was sold, nothing there either. All the safety nets had been cut away. And women say men lack the ability to committ !

So, what is the first thing he should do with his new life? How about looking around really seeing everything and everyone. He remembered the attractive woman that had jogged past earlier. He looked far down the beach and saw her standing next to a tree. Not just stading there, Alan, she was touching the tree. He watched her leave it slowly and then move on. Alan strolled down the beach, and looked hard at the tree stand she had stopped at. At first he saw nothing. Then he spotted it. An old carving in the trunk, about five feet high.

C.P + S.W.

Ah, a story! Alan just grinned Not bad for someone that was just starting to really observe the world around him! He filed that away, wondering who that jogger was.

As he approached the hotel, he saw the dark haired woman holding a camera. Not just holding it, Alan noticed. More like the camera was an extension of herself. She carried it with such an easy grace. Dark alive hair. Raven hair. The Eagles.

Raven hair and ruby lips
sparks fly from her finger tips
Echoed voices in the night
she's a restless spirit on an endless flight

The Raven, hmmm, Edgar Alan Poe's famous short story. Alan Parsons wrote lyrics inspired by the book -

To my amazement
There stood a raven
Whose shadow hung above my door
Then through the silence
It spoke the one word
That I shall hear for evermore

Alan almost ran back to his room, he was amazed at how inspired he was from this place. Grabbing his laptop, he dashed back to the outdoor cafe. He was eager to get his first thoughts down ...

 

[BigDawg69]

The whine of a twin engine plane flying low over the island, rustled Jackson from his slumber. His crystalline eyes blinked slowly as he lifted his head atop his stiffened neck. As he sat slowly up his back felt as though it made the sound of an old flexible microphone stand.

Squinting against the onslaught of the day, Jackson battled with the choice to eat, or return to his slumber. Turning in his chair he peered down at the stark white paper, perched precariously in the typewriter. Setting his long fingers against the keys, he closed his eyes.

Crows come from the east bank,
Telling me to come home.
I reside in the evening,
watching the waves wondering where to roam.


Heaving a sigh, Jackson removes himself from his desk chair, leaving the page in the infernal machine. He shuffles to the door, looks out across the expanse of sea, and steps down into the soft sand just off his deck. Sitting down in the sand, he runs his fingers along the soft cool sand, shaded by the gentle sway of wide palms above. Leaning back against the steps, Jackson once stares hopefully into the sky. Great billows of clouds dance among the blue. His mind paints pictures of great monuments floating among the birds. He watches as the giant colonies of water float past, colliding and forming new and wonderous shapes for his imagination. He studies the eddies and turbulence of the outcroppings, the gentle soft white facing the sun. Crevices sink away into darkness, the underside flat and gray.

Jackson feels a small sand crab gently climb his leg. It's pointy legs clamer across his linen pant and down the other side. Jackson smiles at the small creature, as it glares back with it's bulbous eyes. With a jerk it turns and scampers off toward the sea.

 

[Mayas_Fury]

"I.. " A heavy sigh heaved from her chest having now made a proper fool of herself to the first person she had officially met. She glanced down at the bag which contained her past, present, and future shaking her head slightly. Her reply uttered to no one in particular.

"Well, thanks for breakfast." A soft tint of crimson shattered the peaceful bronze of her face as she returned to her table to leave a modest tip. She'd done her duty embarrasing herself in the public eye this morning thus further reminding herself just why she 'never got out anymore'.

Head hung to guard her gaze from meeting anymore eyes, a curtain of ebon silk waves obscured her face upon leaving the grill. She passed the message to the waitress.. upth.. server that Sophie had offered to foot the bill. Her mind continued to edit itself out of bad habits. That perhaps being the reason her career as a disjointed and aloof writer had never escalated beyond, 'Photo courtesy of Maya Ellison.'

But that was the way she liked it. Afterall she was behind the camera, never in front of it. Though she would honor the woman's wishes and keep the photos from public view they would be included in future portfolios as 'anonymous woman on the beach'. Afterall, if she couldn't be proud of her work, what was it worth to anyone else?

She stepped away from the modest civilization of the island resigning herself to a solitary walk in the surf. The small grey satchel slung over her back out of the reach of the potentially damaging salt water. Pausing a moment to follow a seagull's flight across the muted horizon she smiled to herself and lifted her arms in the light breeze imitating the avian motion of dipping and swaying as the waves licked her bare ankles. The silken cascade of curls caught a single gust and were sent flying back from her face, if this were the only freedom she experienced while she was here, she was greatful for it.

 

[papillon24]

Deidra Collins

I watched the lonesome seagull float on the breeze as my daydream continued. The noise of the guests floated among their calls, but one particular. I hear a deep and getle voice directed at me. I turned to look in the direction it came from but whoever it was had left.

I turned back to my book and flipped to the next page. There in front of me was Connor's vows to me written an a napkin.

Diedra, I will love and cherish you forever. You are the one that makes my heart whole. My soul was is and will forever be linked to you -connor

I threw down the book and words all together into the sand. I ran from where I sat on the boat in tears onto the main deck and lounge area in tears. I stopped to catch my breath standing on the steps where I could hear the clinking of glasses and plates from the restauraunt and bar.

'drink' I thought to myself 'thats exactly what I need now.. What are you thinking Diedra it's too early.' I wiped my tears on my arm and entered, sitting at the bar

"Pina colada please" as I slumped down on my arms

 

[Thor's Hammer]

Thor

The person who drove the cart was polite, but uncommunicative. I gave up on the small talk and watched the scenery flow by as we headed for the row of cottages. I thanked the driver and tipped him handsomely in Euros....I was sure he would be able to use them. Striding into the open air lobby, I was unimpressed with the rather plain decor. However, what was I expecting in the 'outer Carribean?'

"Mr Thor, welcome." The clerk obviously knew my name. He handed me my key and waved toward my accomodations. I walked briskly toward my cabin.....wanting to get rid of my 'travelling clothes' and into more Caribbean attire. I slipped out of my clothes and found shorts and a T-shirt in one of my bags that had been efficiently delivered.

I read the limited information about the resort and decided to have a bite to eat in what was quaintly described as "Rum Runners"

I loved the provinces.......and the rather unsophisticated people that were inhabitants.

I walked through the open door of Rum Runners and selected a table by the wall.....a view of the truly lovely Carribean and beach seduced me..........this might be a place I would enjoy after all............

 

[Baron]

Eric

Broken shells and little eddies of sand kicked up by loose flip-flops followed the lanky, stooped figure along the beach; waves pounding behind lent an incongruously solemn overture to an otherwise inauspicious and unremarked-upon entrance. A baleful gull was the sole observer of this pilgrim's progress. Who knows what that beady scavenger made of its human equivalent?

At the head of the beach, upon that marge where the tide-damped sand gave way to its loose, white, dry counterparts, our journeyman turned and looked back out upon his tracks, his progress, his point of origin: the great, churning sea. The fishing barque he'd hired had already vanished into the illimitable vastness of the horizon; coasts always left him with a profound sense of the infinite. If he could, he would end every imbecilic futile human argument by pointing at the eternal, ever-changing sea.

Stop, now, and write that thought down? Of course not. He was here to work. Cresting the inevitable maze of dunes and bluffs at the beach's end, he headed towards the human shacks that ebbed into view. The roar of the sea was less on this higher ground, and all the misery of human existence was spread out before him like scars: beach shacks, paved roads, electric lights, a bloody airport even.

That largish building, that was probably <I>Rum Runners</I>. He hitched his pack about and flop, flop, flopped across the sand down to the barnacle-town.

 

[ariosto]

Barton had about given up on small talk and was ready to go back out to soak up some sun and walk the strand before taking another drink...pace yourself Woodrow...pace yourself...
A tall man wearing aviator glasses walked into the bar...must have flown that twin in just now.
He smiled and nodded at the newcomer and was about to walk over and introduce himself when the pretty young woman from the upturned boat appeared looking quite distraught. Barton watched her order a drink and then stare morosely at it.

A very unhappy camper...should I?...what the hell...
"Hi, I'm Lance Barton. This is an awfully pretty place for someone to be sad. Can I help in any way?"