Two Islands and Dynamite

two islands and dynamite There are two islands in the stream, one is big and called the new island the other is small and called the old island, the pair is linked to a bridge. I crossed the bond to see my girlfriend, who lived on the old island, in a shack, all houses were shacks the fishermen lived there in suitable poverty. I knocked on the door that cracked, letting out a light which was good, the steps to the house were made off rough unfriendly stones. Her mother opened I didn’t like her smelling of beer she had three teeth left and spoke like a whistle. She hated me for being a cook at a tourist hotel work she thought was for skulkers men with soft hands incapable to do a proper job, like fishing mackerel for a living. She has gone with her new boyfriend on his boat he is a skipper, to Denmark, and with that, she slammed the door shut. On the news, a bridge crossing Crimea to Russia has been blown up; when I crossed the bridge to get to the new island, I thought of doing something in that vein, but having no knowledge of dynamite I let it pass.