Odds Against

The verdant island shimmering in the distance – is it a mirage? A low cloud reflecting the ocean? Real? I notice the birds. Birds mean land. Land means better odds of survival.

As the raft drifts closer, an irrational fear grips me. Am I bound for jungle paradise or horror movie? Flashes of feral boys, a conch, a parachute come unbidden.

A thin strip of sandy beach separates jungle from ocean. I pull the raft clear of the waterline, prop it up for shelter.

The thunderous boom of a trumpet shell reverberates across the island. The odds on survival’ve gone down.

***

Stroke of luck that today’s Writing 101 prompt and this week’s FFfAW picture go together. I wonder if anyone else looked at the island and thought Ralph and Jack.