Red Sands by Request

Turns out I take requests: reasonable ones.  Don’t be asking me to write in the subjunctive on a lark and expecting me to snap to.  This one is from a friend wanting read my thoughts on these photos.  I’ve read up on micronations in the past and decided not to diverge to far from the concept below.  I’d like to come back to this as I didn’t get to the point before I had to start making money for the day instead of playing here.

“Stifu.  Just stifu Citizen.” President Jim impatiently demanded.  “And get back to your can.  It’s getting dark.”

Citizen Carl did, in fact, shut the fuck up.  And, with an apologetic nod, he got back to his can.  It was, after all, getting dark.

President Jim listened as Carl’s retreat creaked the fifty foot gang back to Tall Can and then faded with the ocean sounds further below.  He waited for the always loud zipola to carry Carl a few hundred feet over the swells to Can 5 where he bunked with 23 other men.  Privacy in Red Sands occurred as infrequently as rainbows even for it’s highest officer—especially even.

Staring into the sunset lit clouds on the horizon allowed Jim to keep some of his worst thoughts even from himself.  When solitude did come it came in the extreme.  Jim waited several more minutes before turning away from the expanse of water.  Then he spoke out loud.

“We’ve had no radio contact with London in two months.

“We’ve not seen contrails in the same time.

“Satellites are still flying; sunsets are the same.

“Henry swears he saw a cruise boat heading south a month back.  Before Dianna and Hamish took Little Boat and have not returned from their search in three weeks.

“Our six months of supplies looks to only be four months useful.  So.  Only two months left.

“Big Boat is leaking diesel and needs work on the prop and can only get less than half of us back to the UK.

“What else?  What else?

“Aaaand, Natty is 27 weeks pregnant.  Stupid girl.”

Days  289 and 290