Story I wrote for a friend

Bruce quietly sat on a stool sized chunk of granite rock, staring into the coastline. He squished the wet sand between his toes and wondered if anyone would ever show up and rescue him. Maybe a boat would gallantly race across the horizon, a chariot riding upon glints of silver copper reflections and throw him a line and he would finally be off this dreadful desolate paradise. Of all the things in the civilized world that Bruce missed, he missed other people the most. An extrovert from birth, Bruce made friends everywhere he went. He had mastered the subtle art of body language and had an unconscious control over his conversational vocal tones that would make an opera singer jealous. Though not very smart at all, his charisma, charm and knack for remembering names made him the center of attention. The lack of human interaction led him to befriend inanimate objects, inedible animals, and geographical features, which frankly, were tired of his ceaseless conversations and constant blathering. ”God, doesn’t he ever shut up?” asked the sandstone rock formation. A palm tree whispered back, “Be quiet! Don’t let him hear you talk, it will only encourage him more!” And so sat Bruce, talking to an irritated clam shell about the time he went to his brother’s wedding and slept with not one, but 2 bridesmaids. The clam shell sat in a soft bed of sand and tried to ignore him. He had heard this story exactly 603 times. The clam shell prayed for a seagull to whisk him away to the ocean and drop him to the furthest depths of the Mariana Trench, as far away from Bruce as a clam shell could get. “So I sat up and explained to her I had to get my wallet from the car, I told her to wait there and I drove off, ha!” After finishing his story, Bruce walked over to a coconut and smashed it over a rock. The coconut screamed in pain as his milk and meat splattered through the air. Bruce had sustained himself on a diet of coconuts, bananas, fish, insects and his urge to talk. Bruce slurped up the liquid from the coconut loudly. It was sweet and was a delicate milky white color. Perched above Bruce sat two pelicans, gossiping to each other. ”Even his name is dull! I mean seriously, Bruce? He just keeps talking and talking but I don’t think he’s said anything important. He didn’t even comment about my new hairstyle!” “But you don’t have any hair!” “Bruce wouldn’t have noticed anyways if I did.” Years have passed since Bruce had woken up hung over and very wet on the shore of this uninhabited island. Figuring it was some sort of prank and his friends would drive over after a day or two to pick him up, Bruce waited. And waited. Then he waited some more. No one came and Bruce figured that his friends had mounted a heroic rescue effort that was ultimately thwarted by a very hungry sea serpent. That could be the only thing stopping people from saving him. After all, every person he knew simply adored him. Being stuck on a deserted island is very boring. It left Bruce a lot of time to think. Why were they called deserted islands anyways? There were no deserts. At least some cookies or a cupcake would be fine. And what is up with everything ignoring him and his incredible stories, like that one time he banged two chicks at a wedding? That one is awesome. When he wasn’t busy thinking about important things, Bruce would whittle pieces of driftwood into smaller pieces of driftwood. He was very good at it. Another quaint little hobby Bruce had acquired was harassing the boars that lived on the other side of the island in a small cave. He threw rocks at them and taunted them mercilessly. The poor sows were frightened and even the grown up boars were shocked at the inventive profanities that poured from this man’s mouth. Taunting boars for hours on end can become tiring, so Bruce sat out on his bed made of palm frond and bamboo and napped. In the distance, Ali Castro sped towards the island in a 58 foot long Sunseeker Predator. Peering through binoculars, she noticed a bearded man asleep on a crudely made bed that looks like it came right out of Gilligan’s Island. Then she noticed 2 pelicans pooping on him from the tree above his bed. Bruce woke up to the sputtering of a twin diesel engine yacht soaring towards his island. He jumped up with excitement and flailed his arms like he had never flailed before. In fact, Bruce had never flailed his arms before. There’s a first time for everything, Bruce thought. The boat stopped 20 feet from shore and Bruce jumped and started swimming towards the boat. ”Oh thank god, someone is here to rescue me! Hey, that’s a sweet boat.” A short woman stepped out of the helm station and asked him, ”Are you Bruce Robert Freeman?” ”YES! So people have been looking for me this whole time? I thought they were all eaten by the sea serpent! God damn that sea serpent!” ”What? No.” The woman disappeared back inside the yacht and emerged with an object that Bruce couldn’t quite make out. He figured it to be a life raft. The woman threw it at him and struck his left eye with it. ”Ouchies,” muttered Bruce as he stared at the object which was now floating alongside his face. It was a bright pink dildo. ”You’re a jerk, Bruce!” yelled the woman. “Uh…” said Bruce desperately, “uh…” “Don’t give me that,” snapped the woman as she walked back into the helm and sailed away. “Hey wait a minute!” he yelled, “What is this? What? Wait a minute!” The boat hummed and thundered away, spraying a tail of water in its wake until it disappeared in the distance and all that was visible was the seam where the sea melded with the sky. ”What?” he screamed. “What? What? Hey, what? Come back here and say that!” He swam back to shore and jumped and danced until his legs trembled, and shouted till his lungs rasped. There was no answer from anyone. There was no one to hear him except for a clam shell that who wished he couldn’t hear.