It’s only a 10 minute ride out to the Old Waterfront. I have done this trip every summer for the last five years. It’s a sort of bitter-sweet reminder of how things used to be.
We had a guest house there. Nothing fancy, just a nice little place, with a prime position and a loyal customer base. We were never going to make a fortune, but had planned to stay there until retirement.
For a time after the ‘Climate Adjustment’, I was in a bad place, and had to rely on Government handouts. But I was able to start a new business making small collapsible boats. After I got the government contract, the company expanded to working around the clock.
But, if I could, I’d turn back the clock to how it used to be. To a more civilised time. On a clear day you could look out into the bay, and watch the pale sky merge into the welcoming sea. When a family could safely walk along the seafront. When decent people still had families.
So here I am, alone, looking down from my helicopter at the Old Waterfront sign, chained and anchored, five miles from land. A reminder of the times before the seas rose, and took our Waterfront, and their lives.
I pause, before throwing a wreath onto the water.
As I land in my secure compound, I suddenly feel revulsion at what I have become. This is not what they would want.
I turn off the electrified fences, and open the gates. It takes me a few minutes to write out the sign:
FOOD AND SHELTER HERE, ALL WELCOME!
This story was inspired by the photo, provided for Sunday Photo Fiction July 5th 2015,
by Al Forbes.
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