(A/N—As an assignment for a creative writing class I take, I was to do a short short story of 500 words or less. The first thought that came into mind was Tolkien's version of the old Anglo-Saxon myth. For those who don't know what in blazes this is, the Fastitocalon is basically a giant turtle-fish that sailors mistake for an island. When setting a fire or making loud noise, they startle the beast, causing it to dive under, leaving the hapless sailors to drown. Anyway, I did a word check and this story is EXACTLY 500 words. Sheesh, talk about close. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

Fastitocalon

"Have you tied the skiff yet?"

"Yes, yes! Now go and get a fire started already! My body is cold and my stomach is empty!"

"Fine," I sighed, turning to find anything capable to burn on the island we landed on, "It's not like you're a big help…."

I took off in my search for firewood, and from what I could tell, there was not going to be much hope in finding any. The island was only a few hundred meters in diameter and nothing wooden—trees or driftwood—in sight. No soil seemed to reside here; the land was hard like rock…almost like bone. All that was there (aside from my friend and I) was moss and algae covering the hard surface like a thick blanket.

Annoyance took me and I began to shout, "Get a fire started, you say—well what do I bloody start it with: this water-soaked filth sprawling all over the island? Pheh!"

"I tied the skiff so you make the fire! Why should I care how you start one, just start it!" came the response.

How he and I are friends sometimes astounds me. We fight and argue constantly. Just today, when we were sailing, he claimed that it was because of his fishing techniques that I caught the only fish. Continuing to argue we didn't even notice the large, rounded hump of an island appear in front of us through the fog. We didn't know what island it was, but we did decide, however, to stop there for the night.

I decided to continue searching because I, too, was becoming cold and quite hungry. After several minutes, laziness took a hold and I dropped my search for wood, settling on gathering the moss. Why not? If I wrung out what water had been soaked in it, it could be dry enough to set ablaze.

Confident in myself that I had gathered enough to start a decent sized flame, I walked back to where my friend sat and dropped the moss down in front of him, "Now you wring it out so I can actually set the fire!"

Of course, we argued some more, but we settled on building it together. So after it was actually wrung out and dry enough, I practiced on getting sparks going with my flint while my friend gutted the fish to prepare for a fine sailor's meal.

A cry of joy erupted from within me as the blaze caught and spread. Throwing the fish on the pan we brought ashore, we eagerly awaited supper. While waiting, my friend piped up, "Say, is there a tide coming in? It's either that or this island is sinking…."

"Don't be a fool, this island ain't sinkin'! There ain't any tide here, either!"

"I'm telling you, this rock is goin' under!"

Before we knew it, we were floating in the waves; the "island" was no more.

"Well," spat my friend, "good job in sinking it with your fire!"

Here we go again…