Forgetting (by Heather)

Write a story using the idea "the land that time forgot".

Tuesday, 6 April. 1:32 pm. Macchiato’s Restaurant

Sal glanced at her watch, grimaced and gulped a large slug of her wine. “Gotta get back to work,” she said. She rapped a knuckle on the brochure in front of her. “Okay, so it’s decided. I’ll book us for the cottage on St Lamaris Island.” She paused, stroking the curly blue font on the brochure’s front cover. “‘The land that time forgot.’ What does that even mean?”

“You always gotta philosophise,” Stuart said. “Look, everybody knows that’s travel-speak for secluded and pricey.”

“Well, it’s not very pricey.”

“In that case it’s travel-speak for secluded and primitive.”

Sal took a final swill of her wine. “The cottage on the cover looks nice enough. And God knows I could use some ‘secluded’, whether it’s basic or not.” She stood up, grabbing her folder. “Okay, hi ho, hi ho. I’m gonna have to whip the Nestlés account into shape if we’re taking a week off. Plus a half dozen other projects. I feel like a juggler with ’way too many balls in the air. I must be nuts to try to fit a vacation in right now.”

“All the more reason,” Stuart replied, pushing back his chair and standing up. “Take a chill pill, sweetie.” He brushed her cheek with a kiss. “High flyer though you are, the company isn’t going to fall apart without you. AND your thirtieth birthday doesn’t happen every day.”

“At least there’s some comfort in that!” she laughed.

“Ciao, baby. Happy birthday.”

“Thanks, you. See you at home.”

The brochure, almost forgotten, reached up to touch her finger. Sal snatched it up, slipping it into her folder as she raced to the door.


Saturday, 17 April. 11:15 am. St Lamaris Island

Sal glanced at her watch, took a gulp of her wine, and stretched back in her chair. She could see glimpses of a tropical blue Pacific at the end of the short path through the band of rainforest. She pulled the elastic out of her ponytail and shook her hair loose. They had come walking up that path not a half hour ago, after their guide Harry had beached the motorboat on a sandy patch of tropical paradise. Harry had lugged a week’s supply (hopefully) of food up the path, then bade them farewell. They had dropped their suitcases inside, immediately cracking open a white from the wine cooler they had brought with them. Stuart had gone inside to explore.

She allowed herself a closer look around. The cottage behind her was sparing, to say the least – really, to be honest, it barely made it to “hut”. The deck table she was sitting at wobbled – whether from uneven legs or uneven floor was a fifty-fifty guess. Most likely both. Along with the rest of the place, it could have used a good scouring.

She removed the brochure from her pocket and secured it in the plastic napkin holder on the table in front of her. Who knew why she’d been carrying that thing around with her every minute for the past week and a half? She stripped off her watch and placed it beside the brochure.

She could hear Stu banging around in the hut behind her.

“Harry said he won’t be back for a week?” she called out.

“That’s what he said. Not exactly 5 star service, huh?”

She twirled her wine gently, regarding the brochure. “Well, what do you expect in the ‘land that time forgot’?”

More crashing and thumping. “Time also forgot soft pillows, it forgot sun-screen, it forgot coffee beans,” Stu’s voice said. “Most importantly, it forgot the beer. All we have to drink is the dozen bottles of white we brought ourselves.” He stuck his head out, looking reproachful. “Sal, there’s ‘basic’ and then there’s ‘BASIC’. You coulda checked. You coulda checked this place out on Trip Advisor or something.”

“I was too busy. You know I didn’t have the time.” She tried to feel guilty but couldn’t quite manage it. She identified an unusual feeling she could only think of as being in the right place at the right time.

Stuart stumbled out of the hut and fluffed her hair. “All right, pass the wine,” he said, straddling a chair. “We might as well make the most of this bloody week.”


Friday, 7 May. Pretty early in the morning. St Lamaris Island.

Sal slid her feet over to the rickety chair opposite her at the little deck table, reaching forward to finger the miracle of brown skin on her legs as she did so. She took a slow sip of her pineapple juice. She picked up her mobile and made her second phone call of the morning (and coincidentally, of the week).

“Stu?” she said. “I guess you’re on the way to work so I’ll just leave a message. Just wanted to let you know that all’s well here and I’ve had another fantastic few days. Spoke to Dave this morning and told him I’m taking another week off. Poor guy got a little upset and threatening this time. ‘Dave, do what you gotta do,’ I told him. ‘I’m doing what I gotta do.’ I told him I’ve been on the treadmill for so long that I don’t know how to get off it gracefully. But I do know I’m taking one more week here. By then I’ll know if I want to keep the job, assuming it’s still there for me. Miss you, sweetheart; love you madly. I’ll see you next weekend for sure,” she said, and hung up.

The brochure still sat on the table before her. She picked it up.

The land that time forgot, she mused. Man, have they got that backwards! Time can’t forget anything – it’s not real, it doesn’t exist – or if it DOES exist, it was created by me, not by the land. Time can’t forget the land. But the land can forget time. Oh, yes, the land can certainly forget time. I’m learning from you, St Lamaris.

She slid to her feet and wandered into the hut. It was immaculate, the windows were gleaming, the path to the ocean was trimmed and tamed. She looked affectionately at the quirky little basket she’d woven, at the outline for a novel that had sprung into mind a few days ago, at the fish in the sink she’d reeled in at dawn this morning. Yum, supper!

She reached for the phone to make her last call for a week. Again, the call went to voicemail.

“Harry? Is that you?” she said. “Listen, I’m staying one more week so I’m hoping you can bring some more supplies over. And thanks for the fishing tackle – you’d be proud of me if you could see this monster I’ve got in the sink!

“One more thing, Harry. Could you track down a set of watercolour paints and a watercolour notebook? Nothing fancy – I’ve just had this urge to try my hand at painting.

“Thanks again, Harry. You’re The Man!”

She clicked the phone shut, then opened it again in order to turn it off. She tossed it into the suitcase in the corner.

And grinned.

She had to admit, if there were such a thing as time, she was having a good one.