Happy Hour by Mark Koopmans

Rachel Harrie has arranged a Third Campaigner Challenge. For this one, writers must submit a post in 300 words or less, excluding the title. The post can be in any format, whether flash fiction, non-fiction, humorous blog musings, poem, etc. The blog post should show:

·         that it’s morning,

·         that a man or a woman (or both) is at the beach

·         that the MC (main character) is bored

·         that something stinks behind where he/she is sitting

·         that something surprising happens.

Just for fun, see if you can involve all five senses AND include these random words: "synbatec," "wastopaneer," and "tacise." (NB. these words are completely made up and are not intended to have any meaning other than the one you give them).

My entry (below) is #80 on the list, and you can vote here

********************

 

                                                            Happy Hour

“Ah, for Jaysus sake, Jimmy, there’s only one free spot left. There in the corner, next to the path. Hurry up, will ye?”

Staring at my lumbering bride of eighteen years, I shut my mouth, tasting again the bitterness of unspoken words.

9 a.m., and she’s starting already? Great. Bang goes my day. Again.

The damp sand calmed me a little as I dragged along the cooler, stripy beach towels and twin umbrellas that looked cute – sixteen years ago.

<><><><><><> <><><><><><> <><><><><><>

Source: By zombie303 @ Photobucket.com

The screeching began less than two minutes after we settled into our plot of sand. Some dude pushing an old, industrial sized garbage bin. WASTOPANEER DISPOSAL stenciled on the side.

The imported stench behind us explained the empty spot on the busy beach.

“Gloria – before you begin,” I said, knowing she’d shoot down the poor hotel worker.

“Oh, don’t start with that synbatec crap again,” she said. “This is ridiculous. I didn’t pay Tacise Travels $4,700 to sit next to a damn dumpster.”

“It’s symbiotic, dear, and I wa-”

“I don’t care. I want you to fix this!”

So I did. I didn’t want to, earlier. Now? Yes, now I did.

With a little help from my friends…

Using the hotel manager as an excuse, I guided her to the blind side of the dumpster. Waiting were the three brothers I’d met at the bar – was it already a week? Masked by the commotion at the water’s edge, (I paid for that, too,) her feet, clanging and scrambling against the empty dumpster went unnoticed.

The hollow thump of a large body landing in an empty dumpster brought on a smile. The stripy towels and umbrellas followed soon after.

The cooler I kept.

It was 9:59 a.m. in Rio. Moseying into a bar, I celebrated my first Happy Hour of the day.