Rachael Harrie's marvellous third campaigner challenge asks for a beach centered story of 300 words. For full details, follow the link.
Ozzy Simpleforth, King of Deckchairs
"Oh listen to the sea and smell the salty breeze!" Simpleforth fought with a deckchair. "One can almost taste it! And hark! The crashing breakers fling spray to make the chilled skin tingle." That the deck chair was winning seemed beyond doubt. Simpleforth's face appeared through a fold of striped canvas. "Truly the seaside is a sybantec experience, antidote to a life entacised by ennui. But Heavens! I miss my bucket and spade, dearest. How could I forget such indispensable seaside accessories?"
"No need for sarcasm," from Dearest. "Fed up already, are we?"
"What's so stimulating about miles and miles of sand followed by miles of ocean." The deck chair, erect at last, creaked as he slumped. "One must keep one's fingers away from the joints. A man can lose valuable digits. God did not give me fingers to be sacrificed to overzealous deckchairs."
"Stop fretting, for Goodness sake. Relax."
"Look folks! Simpleforth relaxed, and partner, enjoying the holiday of a lifetime. Can you smell something?"
"I have ten fine toes to wiggle in the sand," he said, sniffing, "As do you. And even though the lone and level sands stretch far away, we manage to choose a pitch next to a heap of donkey dung!"
"Alright, Ozymandias. The Wastopaneer will be along soon to shovel it up. Now shut up. I'm reading my kindle."
"And with a final fart, the donkey trotted off hee-hawing 'Look on my works ye mighty, and despair!' "
"You're a disgust."
Something deep in the deckchair's latticework cracked like a pistol shot and, still bearing its occupant, collapsed, a colossal wreck, onto the sand.
"Blast my bollocks!"
Dearest concentrated on her kindle, lips set in a mirth-concealing line. "Still got all your fingers?" she asked, a wholly false note infecting her solicitude.
(Apologies to Mr. Percy Bysshe Shelley.)