Notes: I grew up with Gilligan's Island. I've probably watched every episode a dozen or more times. It's incredible to me that the series, which was cancelled in 1967, is now past half a century old.
My guess is that most of you haven't watched even a single episode of it. I could be wrong about that.
When I started writing fan fiction, I thought that one day I might tackle Gilligan's Island, but make it much darker and grittier--something akin to Lost, perhaps, but without the flashbacks, and a degree or two more brutal. Elements from the original series will still appear in here, but not in a slapstick manner. What would you do with a six-foot spider? Just how hard would you have to hang on to a palm tree in a hurricane that has lifted you horizontally off your feet?
The principals are still here, but brought into the twenty-first century stripped of the slapstick while fully immersed in the day-to-day immediacy of survival, not to mention distrust of each other. Things aren't as they seem--at all.
I've written the prologue and two chapters. I'll be starting a new chapter soon, so I thought I'd get started posting what I've already got.
Approximately 1,100 nautical miles SSW of Hilo, Hawaii
30 June 2016, 3:47 pm
He came up gasping. The sting of salt water kept him from focusing.
A fist caught him in the jaw. Mennon was suddenly on top of him, holding him down, trying to get his big tattooed forearm around his neck.
He thrashed and twisted and managed to get out of his grasp, at least enough to smash a knee into his groin. The overbuilt fuck sucked in a mouthful of seawater and lashed out. The blow grazed his cheek. He flipped in a tight ball and wrapped his legs around Mennon’s neck and twisted violently with everything he had left.
The two of them sank.
The water was crystal clear and silent. He could see the Minnow sinking into the blackness a hundred feet down.
The same blackness that would be his and Mennon’s grave.
So fucking be it.
Mennon couldn’t get free, try as he might. He writhed and fought, but it didn’t matter. He reached behind him, clawing at his body, at his chest, at anything he could reach. He grabbed his chin; for his trouble he lost a finger. Blood soon clouded the struggle. Sharks would be on the way. He wouldn’t survive them.
Mennon coughed and weakened. He grabbed his head with both hands and jerked viciously, and Mennon’s neck snapped. He heard it—a muffled double-pop!
Howell’s head bodyguard went still.
He released him and clawed for the surface.
He wasn’t going to make it.