The Bargain

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a 200-word story based on a photo prompt. The photo this week was taken by a friend of mine who wished to remain anonymous

Photo Credit: Sunday Photo Fiction

This was not how it was supposed to work.

Bill had looked forward to retirement; delayed gratification after years of frugality and self-discipline. He had played by all the rules; maximizing his contributions to his 401K and enduring a job that provided a good paycheck but no joy.

He sacrificed for his wife and children, providing them a good life.

He cared for everyone else for 40 years. Now it was his turn.

But when the diagnosis came back, his dreams died. Parkinson’s. A slow and debilitating disease.

You’re wrong! He protested.

It’s not fair!

Can’t you do anything?

The kind old doctor smiled. There is a way.

The details shocked him, but in the end, he agreed.

He arrived at the station, suitcase in hand. There were many others, like him, traveling to the crossroads. In his pocket was his down-payment; love letters from his wife. His most precious possession.

As the train pulled away, he closed his eyes and thought about what he was about to do. Once the contract was signed, he would have ten years of health, happiness, and prosperity.

It was his due, after all.

Who wouldn’t sell their soul for that?

Word Count = 196

 

 

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Men in Kilts

Photo Credit: C.E. Ayr

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…

“Are there really men in kilts there?”

“The place is crawling with them.”

“When do I leave?”

 

 

La Chapa

Photo Credit: Susan Spaulding

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 Inn  HERE.

 “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.

 

* Loosely lifted from the song Loser, by Beck.