The Castaway.

Dragging himself up the beach, John spat out a mouthful of sand, his head still reeling from the whirlwind of events that had led to him finding himself stranded, naked on a small island in the South Pacific. What had started as a quiet and romantic cruise ended in disaster as the ship struck first a reef, then the wreckage of a battleship that had last seen the light of day in 1943, then sunk straight down with a loss of all hands – except John. Having swum for nearly six hours, his joints screaming at him, he pulled himself onto dry land and passed out.
The next morning (it had to be morning, the sun never usually looked that mercilessly cheerful any other time of day), John sat up, looking round. There seemed to be some flotsam washed up further down the beach, so he scrambled to his feet to see if he could find anything of use. Several empty suitcases, they’d suffice as the basis for a shelter of some kind. A rather large embroidery box, all sorts of needles and threads for all occasions. Which would be great if he had anything to sew. Finally, a small loom; his loom to be precise. Well, that was a start. As a professional tailor, John could quite easily manufacture himself a suit to keep the sun’s relentless rays at bay, and his hobby of weaving would also come in handy. If only he could find something to weave. . .
Then he saw it – a small patch of some native grass which, upon further inspection seemed to have just the right tensile strength and attributes to weave into a rudimentary cloth. Gathering up great handsful of the grass, he set up his loom and started to work.
The loom clickety-clacked into the morning, the odd native grass turning into a surprisingly good cloth which John, after having cut to size and shape, turned into a rather fetching two-piece suit; comfortable, protective and stylish to boot. Folding the two lapels of the jacket together, he noticed the suit’s one downfall – a distinct lack of buttons. Another quick beachcombing exercise came up with the solution: three small stones, each with a small hole which would be perfect for the purpose. And so, seated on a nearby rock, he started stitching his makeshift buttons onto the jacket.
So intent, so focused on the task, John never noticed the tiny sparks jumping from the needle as it struck the stone. The light was starting to fade, so he sewed faster. Without his even noticing, his trousers had started to smoulder and soon, his lap was ablaze. Gripped with a haze of panic, John first tried to take off the trousers, then made a last-ditch attempt to leap into the nearby sea, but it was no good. The fire had taken hold. He died in a fury of flames, the needle still threaded held in his outstretched hand.
It was three days later when a search and rescue ship showed up. The lifeboat slid ashore with a muffled crump, Captain Bright stepping off first. Surveying the scene, Bright motioned to his first officer, a haggard-faced old seadog named Carl. “What do you make of it?”
Carl studied the tableaux – a body burnt to a crisp amidst the ashes of his improvised clothing, the needle, the ersatz buttons. He nodded grimly. “Seems like people in grass trousers shouldn’t sew stones.”