Hipster at Sea - Short Story - Shipwreck Writing Challenge Round II

in #fiction6 years ago (edited)

Hipster at Sea

shipwreck 2_1.jpg

She looked at the words she had just written. What rubbish.

Her first entry in weeks and immediately she remembered why she had abandoned this journal idea. She tried stretching herself, laughing about the awkward poses she made to accommodate her long limbs in the confined space of her sailboat. If only her yoga teacher could see her now. She had finally been able to find enough dry clothes to put on, but it was still not enough to get rid of the cold that had entered her spine.

She looked at the page. Let’s forget about it. It’s all lies. Sure, it is technically a morning. A cold and dreary morning. But glorious? Glorious in the sense that I’m still alive. Glorious in that I’ve at least been able to navigate my way back on course. But that’s about it.

She scratched out the line and looked at the mess she had made. A ruined page, what a perfect metaphor.
Why am I even writing this? Why do I still try? I don’t have the energy to be thinking about anyone who might one day read this stupid journal. This is supposed to be all for me, remember? I’m just channelling the energy of the universe. Making time for myself. Taking control of things, letting myself be guided by my inner compass. What was that Buddhist saying again? Om…something.



Why did I even bring this notebook with me on a trip across the Atlantic? Paper on a boat. Who’d be stupid enough to do such a thing?

I should have brought along some pictures of Tommy and Brian instead. My mother better be taking good care of those furballs right now.

Any picture would do, really. A flower. A mountain. As long as it shows something other than this enormous emptiness. Perhaps I should make a mantra about things I like, to keep me connected to the source of all good things. Or from from leaning too far overboard. Ha. Cappuccinos. Cocktails served in a glass rimmed with sugar. Fresh salad with blue cheese dressing. Diced tomato and parsley. Some creamy almond milk.

Now I’m hungry. Again. I already finished my ration for today. Some water. I should stop thinking about food. A foodless mantra of happiness. Red roses. Teddy bears. Coffee shops. Ah, tricky one. The New York Skyline. Hell, any skyline would do. Anything as long as it is not… the sea. This limitless mass of water. Treacherously cold.

How can I already despise the ocean after a mere ten days? And the sun. Would I include the sun in my mantra of happiness? Not after all these blisters I won’t. Strange how people can be so blinded by a symbol of something, forgetting to check reality first.

Ok, let's try again. I don't have anything else to do, but write in that stupid journal, anyway.


Man, where is the bucket. Who would read any of this? Who would spend time freewriting like this and expect something to come out of it?

Okay, it was about time to acknowledge this was going nowhere. I could just throw this pen overboard. And those two spare ones. And this whole journal. At least it would stop me from obsessing over writing down my experience. Well, dear journal, I feel awful today. The food is disgusting and I haven’t seen any living soul for days. Bleegh, writing sucks.

I’d better make sure I’m on course, before I end up on the wrong side of this bloody ocean. I should have made more progress yesterday. The wind was favourable, but I slept through most of the day. How can you be so incredibly tired? Those yoga poses don’t work at all. Not in this cramped space, with this rocking the whole time. This whole quest for mindfulness is failing by the minute. Okay, sixty degrees. That is good. Another hour, unless the wind grows even stronger than this. I might have to take in the jib in a bit. No. It’ll hold. It should. After all we’ve been through together already.

In a few days I’ll probably be talking to it. Her. Everything about a ship is female, right? Or am I imagining things? It’s not fair, anyway. In the past maybe. When there were no women on sea it might have made sense. But nowadays? Next time I’ll ask for a male ship. Next time. Right. As if.

If only someone could hear me thinking all this. Straight to the mental institution, they’d say. And they’d probably be right.

Woah. That was a big wave. Where did that come from? The weather report… ow, shit. It didn’t update. Holy cow. This is from two days ago. Sure. That’s all I need right now. Amazing how things always happen to me. We’ve figured out how to fly to the moon and back, but simple… Well, maybe it’s not so simple. I have no clue.

Ok, time to take in the jib. And the mainsail. And everything.

O god, this storm is really coming out of nowhere.


I’m already soaked.

What is this? Where did this rope come from?



Knife! Knife-knife-knife. Hello?!


Ow, Goddess help me; …



Read more: About this 3-week challenge,
my previous entry from one week ago, or a sonnet about the moon.

With special thanks to @thewritersblock
for their continued support, encouragement and inspiration.


What's this self-torture? Stop that! It makes me mad. I want to shake you! Put this critic back where it came from. Always this "me, me, me" - GOSH!!

Okay. The writing made me steam!
Good job! ;-)

Yes, it made me pretty depressed writing this in deep POV... but I survived, so can you! Can she? :P

YES! It works now. The on paper writing makes it better in my opinion.

It was actually fun to write these. Felt nicely meta-authory-something. Thanks for your helpful feedback, I do think it's better. Although still enough to learn... sigh

I really liked your story (: I could feel her frustration and desperation. I wonder what goes through someone's mind when they decide to embark on such a journey. Can't wait to see your entry for round 3 :) I still can't decide what prompt to choose xD

Great start, great finish. Now even simple folks like me can figure it out :)

Straight to the mental institution! I'm just kidding.
But maybe the protagonist might end up preferring it instead of the endless sea.
The paper writings give it a nice touch indeed.

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