Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a 200-word story based on a photo prompt. Thanks to C.E. Ayr for this weeks challenge. To see what other stories were inspired by this great photo, just go here.
This week is a continuation of my last story,Just Sports.I couldn’t leave Frank and Diane hanging in marital disarray and I hope you agree, things are getting interesting.
Diane was adamant.
“I want four hours, every Saturday morning. No questions asked.”
“What do you mean, no questions asked. What do you plan to do?”
“No questions. Not where I go, not whom I’m with. Those are my conditions.”
The couple sat at separate ends of the therapist’s couch. The World Cup had torn their marriage apart. Diane wanted a divorce, but Frank begged they try counseling first. His sports obsession was out of control and he was willing to do anything to keep his wife.
On Saturday morning, Diane left the house without a word. She drove to the park where she saw Barry’s car. It was early, and they were quite alone.
“Frankie is OK with this?” Barry asked. Frank was his best friend and he wanted to make sure he had his blessings first.”
“It’s complicated. The less he knows, the better.”
“I like you Diane, but I’m not sure you are worth losing a friend over.”
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?”
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a complete story in 100 words or less based on a photo prompt. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this challenge and Douglas M. MacIlroy for this week’s prompt.
Everyone in the small Texas town loved J.D. McCaskill.
J.D. was what you’d call a good-old boy. Whenever a neighbor needed a hand, J.D. was first to offer his. Once he loaned his brand-new truck to a stranger who needed to haul some hay. And if you ever crossed one of his friends; well, you’d better watch out.
J. D’s life was an open book. Married 30 years to wife Elaine, father of five fine boys. No surprises.
Yep, everyone loved J.D. Everyone except that 17-year old girl chained up in his cellar. She might have different story to tell.
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a complete story in 100 words or less based on a photo prompt. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this challenge and Björn Rudberg for this week’s prompt.
Looking back, all the signs were there; the last-minute cancellations and unanswered phone calls. The hint of lavender on his collar after working late.
After discovering the truth, I knew I must step carefully, and choose my path wisely.
There is an old proverb, opportunity knocks only once.
The news his car swerved off a mountain road left us in shock. How could such a good driver lose control?
At his funeral, I held his mother’s hand and cried.
Inside I smirked with the realization that I chose well when I picked auto-mechanics as an elective in high school.
Standing next to the faded yellow tax, a Lucky Stripe cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, Yanno Koykis pulls his frayed jacket closer to his chest as the bitter cold February winds press against him. The downtown crowd was much smaller than usual. Too cold to go out for lunch, he thought to himself. “Today won’t bring much change to my pocket”. Yanno sighs, and waits for his first fare of the day.
As he blankly stares down the nearly deserted street, Yanno notices a young woman briskly walking in his direction. Whether she was in a hurry or just cold, Yanno didn’t care. He hopes his luck is about to change.
“I need a taxi”, the petite woman asks. “Are you available?” Read more ›