Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a 200-word story based on a photo prompt. The photo this week is was taken by C.E. Ayr in Glasgow, Scotland. My story is a bit quirky. I hope it is equally enjoyable.
“Ever been to Scotland, Conrad?”
The question surprised me, producing a blank look that must have given The Boss reason to question my educational background.
“Scotland…you know, Loch Ness…Highlander… men in kilts?”
I blushed at the thought of naked male knees, conveying more information than I cared to share. I quickly came to my senses.
“Of course, I know Scotland. My grandfather was from Scotland. Or was Ireland? Never could keep the two countries straight. Why do you ask?”
“I need you to fly over and drop off a package.”
“Don’t they have postal service in Scotland,” I ask. The Boss has made strange requests before, but mail delivery was a new one.
“It’s all over the news Conrad! Amazon Corporation owns the USPS. Trump says so. Besides, I can’t take a chance this package is delivered to the wrong address.” The Boss leaned forward and whispered, “It’s for a lady friend of mine. If you get my drift.”
I got the drift. The Boss had lots of lady friends. I felt sorry for his missus, but still…
Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a 200-word story based on a photo prompt. The photo this week is was taken at the Raton Pass Motor Inn, on Route 66. Each room has a different theme, and this week’s photo was taken in the Pin-Up Girl room. The Raton Pass Motor Inn is a real blast from the past and I highly recommend anyone taking a trip down the Mother Road stop there for the night. You can find more about Raton Pass Motor InnHERE.
“Well, it’s better than the back seat of the car.” Jo Reynolds eyed the motel room. Scarce furnishings, but clean. She expected worse this side of the Mexico border. Jo had driven all night, crossing the International Bridge at Mission Texas. Dead-tired, she found the desolate motel near La Chapa. Jo needed sleep, but first she needed a drink. She poured several shots of cheap tequila into a dull glass left on the nightstand by previous occupant. Undaunted by germs, Jo emptied the glass quickly, then laid on the bed, closing her eyes.
Sleep did not come. No amount of tequila could erase the memory of the past two days. Or of Jimmy.
They had been so good together. A perfect blend of desire and danger. If only Jimmy had kept his mouth shut. Jimmy loved to boast, especially after a few drinks. At a different motel, they fought hard. He pleaded, and she cried when he spoke the words that sealed his fate.
“Baby, you know I’m no good for you. Better kill me now.” *
They say a woman’s weapon of choice is poison, but if you are a Texas gal, a Colt-45 works just fine.