Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a 200-word story based on a photo prompt. Thanks to C.E. Ayr, long-time member of the Sunday Photo Fiction community for this weeks intriguing photo.
The old church stood in a part of town called The Paseo, home to every wanna-be painter this side the Red River. Inside, I was greeted by a woman of innumerable years and teeth yellowed from too much tobacco. We exchanged pleasantries as she led me to the first gallery. Every painting had a story. She was a wealth of knowledge, this one, but none of it interested me.
“Tell me your story,” I said.
“No story,” eyes darting from side to side. “Just an old woman with a gallery.”
That, I doubted.
I asked to see her work, so she led me to a small backroom. I’m no art critic, but I knew bad art when I saw it. A brilliant deception I might add.
“Where are the abstracts?”
No abstracts she professed.
I said I was no art critic, but I am an art detective and I was running out of patience. For years I had searched for the missing Picasso. Not a painting, but a forger; the best in the world. I knew in my gut she was standing two feet away.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” I said. “How much to forge Les Demoiselles d’Avignon?”
Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a 200-word story based on a photo prompt. This weeks photo was taken by myself at a bar crawl in Cozumel Mexico.
“Satisfaction of one’s curiosity is one the greatest sources of happiness in life*.” Xavier peeled an orange deliberately, as if exposing a deep secret.
I never felt the need to satisfy my curiosity. But when I received a call from Xavier’s personal secretary requesting a meeting, I was intrigued. My brother had not spoken to me in 20 years and threatened to kill me the next time we met.
I was told to meet him at a bar on Calle Obispo. When I arrived, the place was empty except for Xavier, sitting in a dark corner. Unquestionably, Xavier arranged for the privacy at an attractive price to the proprietor. I ordered a drink.
“Why am I here, Xavier. Are you finally asking for my forgiveness?
“Forgiveness? No, Matteo. What you did to my wife was unthinkable among brothers. But perhaps we can forget for a brief time?
“It’s business, then. I am surprised a man like you wouldn’t have his own resources for solving problems.”
“This I could not trust to anyone but family.”
Once again, my curiosity piqued. Why did my brother need the services of a world-class assassin?
Cee’s Oddball Challenge is for those photographs that don’t really fit into a common category. There is no theme to this challenge; what is odd ball is up to the participant.
Many of the photos I take on vacation are used as reminders rather than photographic gems I share with others. Last week I traveled to the Vail Valley where the photo below were taken. I hope you like the odd ball’s that I have chosen to share this week.
We stopped a the Welcome Center in Leadville, Colorado and my inner genealogist was immediately attracted to the list of books below.
Living in Oklahoma, the need to flag a fire hydrant so it could be found in a snow drift is very odd indeed.
I was walking through Vail Village, past the river, when I noticed this worker having his lunch. I thought what a great view for spending your lunch hour.
This was taken at an event in Vail. There is a world of difference in how trash and recyclables are handled between Colorado and my home state of Oklahoma.
I can’t remember the last time I used one of these for a hotel room.
Happy Father’s Day to all the dad’s reading. Whether you are the natural father, a step-father, or a surrogate; kudos for making a difference in the life of a child.
Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a 200-word story based on a photo prompt. This is a photo I took at a local park. If you are interested in reading more stories inspired by the photo below, you can find them by clicking the little blue frog here
I watched the old man from a distance. He sat on a park bench, feeding bread crumbs to a gaggle of geese. They reciprocated their hospitality with annoying honks and droppings at his feet. His wrinkles and white hair suggested a man older than his physical years. He wore second-hand khakis and a rumpled t-shirt. Neither looked washed.
This is not what I had pictured at all.
I returned to the park daily, blending in with the park lunch crowd. Simply observing. Then I started following him, curious where he went after leaving the park. His routine never varied; a stop at the grocer for a can of tuna and bread. I wondered how he survived on such measly rations. A block later, he entered a run-down building. I found his name on the mailbox. Five flights up and no elevator.
For days I contemplated my next move. It was time to leave or finish what I started. I chose the latter.
When the old man opened the door, I saw recognition from behind his clouded eyes. I saw something else. Fear. Rightfully so.
Pointing the gun at his head, I pulled the trigger.