[Following on from the Mudcat Tavern Enterprise, which began to move into longer fiction, here is a possible new venture. There seem to be only two rules: respect the integrity of other people's characters (don't make them do anything they wouldn't somehow possibly do), and give other people's storylines room to breathe. I am going away for a week's holiday, so you are on your own....as the story shows.....

Day 1. I guess I should keep a journal just in case we ever get rescued off this place. It will come in handy. My name is Robinson Wallace, I am a travel writer, and I guess my only claim to fame is that my great grandfather, Alfred Wallace discovered the theory of evolution and like an idiot gave the credit to Darwin. Hands up, those who have heard of Wallace; now hands up, those who have heard of Darwin. So much for Victorian politeness. Anyway, we will need some of it here, I guess.

It all started when some smart guy got this idea for a cruise to the South Seas on one of these flash boats with folk musicians as the entertainment. With casinorama for insurance. I got a free invite to write something up: I was thinking of dredging up my great-grandaddy's history in these parts -- Borneo, South Seas -- and since our family has always been nature types, I thought I could do a little exploring, write a travel piece for the Times, and maybe hear some nice music. We didn't count on the weather. Four days out, somewhere past the Philippines, the storm came out of nowhere. For three days, in hurricane conditions, the ship reeled around, and then it hit something. We piled into lifeboats in the howling wind, and were dumped in the raging water just in time to get a ringside seat to watch "the great ship go down" as the person sitting next to me in my boat sang -- yes, a folk singer. Checking out the 16 people who happened to pile into the boat with me, men, women, there must be a fair number of folk musicians as well as ordinary passengers, though everyone looks pretty miserable. As to the rest, who knows. Monsters? Lovers? Stockbrokers?

Anyway, after bobbing around on the sea for a couple of days -- no one in the boat had any compass or position indicator (someone had remembered to bring his fingerpicks!) or water or anything -- we lost sight of the few other boats way off in the distance, and then another day passed. Just as we were getting hungry and thirsty, we caught sight of an island. We paddled towards it, and just before we hit the land, we passed through a reef, and then in the undertow, the boat capsized and was smashed against some rocks beneath. We all swam for it. I was able to keep my journal dry in my pouch, so that is why I can write this. But we have nothing else. We have no idea where we are, and no idea if we will ever be rescued. At the moment we are lying all over the beach, all wet and hungry, on the edge of what looks like a completely deserted island. It seems to be pretty big -- there are hills in the distance, and quite a lot of tropical forest -- so there may be some way of getting some food or something.

Well, we may be here for some time. Perhaps the island has myriad dangers in store -- certainly my fellow castaways look pretty strange -- but perhaps, as Willy said in The Tempest: "Be not afraid, the isle is full of noises, sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not." I'll call it Music Island: and we will see.

I think I will go off and hunt for some fresh water and food, and just look around. Be back soon.