Miles sat on the sandy beach in despair. How has it come to this? He pondered, head in hands, elbows on bent knees, pain in back. He shifted into a more comfortable position and looked around.
Soft white waves washed upon the golden shore nearby, cobalt blue waters touched the sapphire blue sky on the horizon, palm trees surrounded the hut in the centre of the small round island, and the dust had settled back down onto the helipad where he and his rapidly-packed suitcase had been left just under an hour ago.
He was ecstatic when he won the prize. A month on a deserted island, Miles would be miles away from anywhere. No phone. No internet. Leave in thirty minutes the lady on the phone said.
He’d packed his shorts, tees and flip-flops, grooming bag, and a few packets of crisps and biscuits. And books. Many books. His other food and drink would be dropped in by helicopter every third day, and he had food in the hut for the first three days.
The press arrived with the limousine to pick him up, and a runner ran into his apartment to grab his suitcase as Miles was ushered outside. In the confusion, Miles hadn’t said which suitcase, which led to his current predicament.
Both had been filled with junk, old rollerskates, fans, and other niknaks, and he’d only had time to empty one, to pack with his holiday gear.
Both were identical cases, unfortunately.
Miles groaned.
Written for The Unicorn Challenge.
A blogging challenge hosted by Jenne Gray and C E Ayr to write something up to 250 words based on a photo they provide.
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The Mansionic Perspective 
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