What an incredible thing it was, the marriage of artistic ambition with craftsmanlike discipline.
The beating of his heart confirmed what he knew was true all along, that time was still passing, that one beat could be added to another, and so one moment could follow the last.
A silent film.
As per the usual rules, a move was considered for as long as it needed to be considered, but once a man took his fingers off the piece, it was final. Then came the wait, that unbearable lacuna of doubt and inevitable regret.
Before you reach the end of this story, this young man will be dead. I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but to be honest, if you’ve read a few of these island yarns already and are expecting something pleasant to come out of this one, I’m not really sure what to tell you.
At times he seemed to him a perverse mirror, a reflection of all his evil deeds in life come back to haunt him, a promise that the worst of him would forever be by his side.
Man is a social being, even on a deserted island. To betray the trust of your fellow man in this life, then, is to betray the very foundation of society itself.
Of course, his abject misery could not be denied. The allure of a being who could solve all problems with just one glance, one admission of credo!, one whimper of supplication, was to be, in his position, a good one indeed. Perhaps too good.
I know if I had a bottle, pen and paper, if I had a chance to reach out to another soul, I would have used a little more common courtesy.
Life was a joy to him, swimming in such plenty as he was…