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Obsession
By Randy Dutton


‘A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou singing beside me in the wilderness� –Khayyam’s poetic phrase was my obsession since high school. ‘If you could have three things on a desert island, what would you desire?� was meant more as a school newspaper ice-breaker than a challenge. After 10 years mulling the question, you became my infatuation � a young, beautiful pop singer whom everyone adores, alone with me. In my dreams romance would blossom.

The warm breeze flows over my tanned, shirtless body. Sitting in the sand with an ocean-smoothed rock behind me, I take in the incredible view. The surf breaking over the reef is illuminated by incalculable stars. I’m content here.

I roll my head to gaze upon your lithe body curled up on a palm frond mat on the beach. The campfire embers are cold. You’re sleeping now � that’s good. What a night we had...so long and active. I tip my lightened champagne bottle toward you, just meters away. To you Hēbē, goddess of youth! I gulp the remains and jam the bottle into the black sand next to the other empties.
It wasn’t easy making you mine. I close my eyes and recall what I’ve done. If not for my planning, what would a 21-year-old songstress have seen in a 29-year-old skinny computer geek like me? Making this happen seemed a fantastic, impossible adventure. The planning took effort...and skill. I read of your pending singing tour, and hacked and manipulated itineraries, aircraft electronics, manifests, and personnel files. It took months to spoof a tour organizer’s identity and get you on that plane...with no one else but me. I even ensured the flight crew was too old to compete.

I flip open my laptop and the screen lights up with paparazzi images of my companion. You’re so entrancing in these photos...so beautiful and strong. I activate software to automatically reposition the portable satellite transceiver next to me. Soon I’m perusing news accounts of the missing diva. Reuters reports, ‘Hēbē and Five Others Lost at Sea During USO Tour�. I read further, �...radio contact lost...transponder malfunction...South Pacific search called off after 10 days...world mourns....�

I’ve got to make this right. The last week’s been hell...on both of us. What was I thinking? You’re so beautiful when painted up, so bland when you’re not. Every day, your pale face is sun burnt and your eyes are dark from tears. How was I to know your weaknesses were masked by your entourage? For you, everything is too dirty, too hot or too cold. You can’t stand the bugs or what might be in the water...and you hate seafood. Isolation scares you. We’ve apparently nothing in common. You call me your hero for pulling you out of the sinking plane, but when you seek my comfort, there’s no joy, only tears. Even your voice now grates on me � so powerful in concert, but so squeaky without electronic enhancement. That makes the petty nagging even more intolerable. I’d rather be alone.

I glance to my left. If a search plane ventures 500 miles south of the intended flight path, these broken palm trees and the shallow trench leading to the lagoon are a giveaway. Starlight glints off the few feet of cargo plane tail still above the tide. I only meant to force the plane off course to land on the abandoned WWII airstrip. I didn’t mean for others to die. I tap my keyboard, linking to websites set up in Hēbē’s memory. Hours later, I’m exhausted from posting anonymous reports of sightings and tips � all pointing to this deserted island.

Dawn’s breaking. I gather my electronics and hike into the island’s interior. I stash them in one of the many waterproof bags I had manifested onto the flight, then secretly removed from the sunken plane after the crash. I connect the ruggedized laptop to a solar panel wired to a battery and transformer. For today, I pull out three cans of food, another bottle of wine, and two more sleeping pills.

I’m soon back at camp. Good...you’re still sleeping off the pills I slipped into your dinner. In the early light, I wade into the lagoon, and leave my netted bag carrying today’s provisions underwater near the wreck. After you wake, I’ll retrieve them to maintain my illusion. I lay down next to you to rest. Five days tops and sighting rumors should force a redirected search...then I’m free of you!
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I strongly suggest writers enter such contests to gain exposure and improve their style and flexibility.

The story rings true. So many people fixate on the fantasy that they are surprised by the reality. Good job on an interesting story!