hilts
Well-Known Member
I would endeavor to become the Islands long spunk champion
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So you are stuck on a desert Island.
- Thread starter ColinBellsjockstrap
- Start date
I would endeavor to become the Islands long spunk champion
Stephen230
Well-Known Member
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If there’s fruit, there’s booze.No booze, no cigs, no women and no decent food. I'm not sure I'd be wondering for much longer than a few hours.
FogBlueInSanFran
Well-Known Member
What part of “no chance of ever being rescued; you are definitely going to die there” are people misunderstanding?
Yeah but that applies to all Americans.What part of “no chance of ever being rescued; you are definitely going to die there” are people misunderstanding?
FogBlueInSanFran
Well-Known Member
Fair enough! :)Yeah but that applies to all Americans.
ColinBellsjockstrap
Well-Known Member
Yes, just one sheep.Are there any animals on this island? You didn't state that, and it's important to know.
Marklr
Well-Known Member
Not a flock? I was hoping to become King of the Sheep.Yes, just one sheep.
ColinBellsjockstrap
Well-Known Member
This is what AI came up with:-
He called it “Solara.” Not because it was exotic, but because the word sounded like light. And light was what carved the days for him now—slicing across sand, curling around palm trunks, shimmering in heatwaves above the sea. The island was five miles across and indifferent to his presence. A thousand miles from the nearest whisper of civilization. No plane would pass overhead. No boat would stumble into view. This was the final chapter, and he was its only reader.
But he refused to be bored.
Daily Rituals of Delight
The Book of Days
He carved stories onto bark with a sharp shell. Tales of love he’d never lived, mysteries with no solution, philosophy dialogues between a lizard and a cloud. Eventually, he imagined a curious child finding these relics centuries later and reading them aloud under stars.
Island Theater
Each sunset, he performed one-man plays. Sometimes comedy—mocking his old corporate life with absurd monologues. Sometimes tragedy—re-enacting historical downfalls or conversations he wished he’d had. He used palm fronds for costumes and narrated his emotions to the ocean.
The Astronomy of Memory
By night, he stargazed with devotion. He named constellations after memories: "The Bent Bicycle" for his first kiss, "The Cracked Teacup" for a family loss. He charted a sky that made sense only to him, and that was enough.
Final Reflections
As years waned, he built a circle of stones atop the highest hill—a kind of amphitheater for silence. There, he sat each evening, not to mourn his solitude, but to marvel at how rich he'd made it. He became both the audience and the show.
He called it “Solara.” Not because it was exotic, but because the word sounded like light. And light was what carved the days for him now—slicing across sand, curling around palm trunks, shimmering in heatwaves above the sea. The island was five miles across and indifferent to his presence. A thousand miles from the nearest whisper of civilization. No plane would pass overhead. No boat would stumble into view. This was the final chapter, and he was its only reader.
But he refused to be bored.
Daily Rituals of Delight
- Coconut Orchestra: Each morning, he arranged coconuts by pitch—some hollowed, some water-filled. He tapped them with driftwood sticks, composing “symphonies” that only the hermit crabs applauded.
- Sand Sculpting: He built companions out of sand. Not just crude humanoids—he fashioned elaborate scenes: a dinner party, a courtroom drama, a pirate mutiny. Sometimes he gave them names and imagined betrayals. The tide always dissolved the drama.
The Book of Days
He carved stories onto bark with a sharp shell. Tales of love he’d never lived, mysteries with no solution, philosophy dialogues between a lizard and a cloud. Eventually, he imagined a curious child finding these relics centuries later and reading them aloud under stars.
Island Theater
Each sunset, he performed one-man plays. Sometimes comedy—mocking his old corporate life with absurd monologues. Sometimes tragedy—re-enacting historical downfalls or conversations he wished he’d had. He used palm fronds for costumes and narrated his emotions to the ocean.
The Astronomy of Memory
By night, he stargazed with devotion. He named constellations after memories: "The Bent Bicycle" for his first kiss, "The Cracked Teacup" for a family loss. He charted a sky that made sense only to him, and that was enough.
Final Reflections
As years waned, he built a circle of stones atop the highest hill—a kind of amphitheater for silence. There, he sat each evening, not to mourn his solitude, but to marvel at how rich he'd made it. He became both the audience and the show.
Bigg Bigg Blue
Well-Known Member
I hope it's a good looking one, would be awful to have to live with an ugly one.Yes, just one sheep.
Five miles across, 1000 miles from the nearest land.
You have absolutely no chance of ever being rescued, you are going definitely going to die on there.
However:-
There is an abundance of fresh water from streams and food growing on the island, fruit etc.
Bear in mind if you took ill there's no doctor or dentist etc.
How would you amuse yourself, and do you think you would go mad?
Well, somebody must have been on the island before if it's been measured at 5 miles across and 1000 miles from the nearest land. So there will be hope that somebody will come and find you
Also, knowing my luck, some fucker will find me and say the 115 chargers are still ongoing
Bill Walker
Well-Known Member
Just by shear chance?Yes, just one sheep.