Diary of ...

Friday
12 August 2002

"Poor girl." Brian Standish spoke to his companion.
"I wonder how old she was." replied his colleague, Pamela.
"I'm more interested in how she died," Brian commented. "if it was that leopard she mentioned, we'll have to evict the blasted thing before we open up."
"We don't know she did die. For all we know, she could have been saved the very next minute." Pamela proclaimed.
"And left the diary, after she wrote in it every day? Not likely, and rescuers would've taken the other corpses too." Brian muttered, somewhat smugly.
"Then where's her body gone then? There's not a trace of it."
"Dammed if I know Pam, but I sure has heck don't wanna wind up there. I wonder what happened to her father though." Brian looked around as he said this, as though he thought the man had been hiding in the jungle for seven years.
"Dunno, maybe he went to get some help. That small fishing village on the east coast's about two days of walkin' from 'ere. If 'e were injured it would have taken 'im longer than that." Pamela replied.
Brian could tell from her voice that the plane was getting to her. After starting with the firm Pamela had worked hard to conceal her small town, white-trash accent. It only came out nowadays when she was upset.
"That's true. Come on Pam, we might as well get back to the hotel, we'll speak to someone in the morning about giving these people a proper burial like they deserve."

The End.

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This is the first story I've ever published online. I wrote it years ago for a school assignment. Any comments about the style or technique would be appreciated. Be kind, please?