Dawson met Donald on the plane. They shared a joke about kids demanding gifts on their return. They lost track of each other after baggage reclaim – a grandiose name for the pile of bags on a worn-out trolley in the entrance hall.
A week later, digging yet another home out of the rubble, Dawson heard his name yelled from the river. Donald was in full vacation mode, paddling through the gentle swell. The earthquake had made hotels desperate for guests, Donald said. Watersports were free. Dawson should get out of the mud and join him on a jetski tomorrow.
Thank you to Sandra Crook for this week’s photo. Maybe it’s the mood I’m in, but it struck me this way, so here’s a fairly say-what-you-see response from me for Friday Fiction. Critique away!
Sandy was so excited to be going on holiday, she even joined in the bus transfer sing-a-long. She needed this break, after all the drama with Jackson: to lie on the beach and swim in the pool, to read, flirt and sip cocktails alone in the sun.
The hotel was smaller and shabbier than she’d expected, but it didn’t dent her excitement. The water was calling to her. After checking in, Sandy stepped out onto the pool deck. Stinky black seaweed covered the ground and clung to her sandals. Then she saw the sign: “Desole – la piscine est ferme”.