Writing prompt: In 500 words, There’s an island where all lost things end up. Today, you wake up, cold and wet, on the beach of that island.
I always knew something was wrong with me. From the moment I started to cry as a baby, to the moment I laid down to sleep last night.
The voices of my parents never quite matched the rumblings of murmurs I had heard in my nine months of watery incubation. Between being born, and going to the hospital nursery, I had somehow ended up with the wrong family.
I’d been lost my entire childhood. I was lost during the trying adolescent years when I started to realize I looked nothing like my brothers.
Some people say it was “adoption”, irregardless, I call it lost.
Especially when I opened my eyes an hour ago to find myself in a place cluttered in lonely socks and other miscellanious items.
All your life, you wonder where mismatched socks, bobby pins, hair ties, buttons, shoes, slippers, and family pets end up. Well, wonder no more – they still exist, stranded on a surreal island in the middle of nowhere.
After blinking several times, relentlessly pinching my arm, and roughly smacking myself across the face once or twice, I decided to spend my time a bit more productively and find out where the heck I was, and if I was the only one here.
“Have you seen Joe?” I heard a voice ask.
“Shelley? Shelley where did you go?” Another cried from somewhere behind me.
It was certainly an odd sight, the endless piles of things scattered about everywhere.
A dog ran past my legs, bumping into me as he went. He was shaggy and gray, with a floppy ear hanging down, and the other perked, listening. Barking this way and that as he threw his head side to side, looking for something.
I knew a great deal about what that was like. The anxious pounding of the heart, as you plow through a crowd of people trying to find something—
The voices caught my attention again as someone else called out for Frank.
Curiosity piqued, I hurried in the direction of the voice.
For being an island of lost things, you will immediately understand the irony which ensued, as I /never/ found the sources which belonged to the voices I heard.
I pursued them until I felt my sanity begin to drain from me. The oddest part of all was the magical sort of “poof” sound that happened right after their cries cheered up.
Cheered up. That was the best way to put it. Almost as though they had been found again, and no longer needed to be here.
Some people try to “find” love, others try to “find” God. In a way, everyone feels just as lost as I do. At least, in one way or another. Unfortunately, I had never known the cheer I’ve just described to you. Nobody has ever made me as happy as the voices that have come and gone in the last two hours.
I wonder how people end up here anyway. In fact, as I stand on this strange island now, I still want to know how on earth *I* got here….. I wasn’t /really/ lost, I was just trying to get from 52nd street to Broadway, and stopped to ask for directions.