Sunday Photo Fiction

The first thing he noticed was the cold.

The last thing he remembered was Ashlee. She was every bit the beauty her profile pic had suggested, with a banner of sienna hair pulled to one side and gamine features that put him in mind of the sprites in his Elfscape game.

He watched her scan the lobby, his heart poised to pounce out of his chest. Would she see him? And if she did, would she turn around and leave?

Just then, her eyes lit upon him and a perfect smile broke free from her croissant lips. She started for him, her long legs mirrored against the marble floor as she walked. With her came the scent of jasmine and the smell of something different. Something clean.

He held out a hand to shake hers—not knowing if that’s what one did on these things—if that was the customary greeting when people finally met in real life.

She warmly clasped his hand and brought her other hand around to cup his forearm. She tilted up and breathed into his ear: “Shall we have a drink first?”

He woke up Sunday, in a bathtub of ice.

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This has been an edition of Sunday Photo Fiction, hosted by Al Forbes. To read more flash fiction or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button.

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“Did you see on the news that a dozen soldiers stormed a school in Chibok?” I asked, but you hadn’t. And I told you about the war going on there, the massacres, and the families torn apart. I told you about the refugees, and how the boys are made to fight before they’re old enough to shave. And you said you hadn’t heard, but did I hear the Hawks beat State by thirty-nine points? And you said that it’s sad—but you find all that news depressing—and you just can’t live like that. And I said I hope we never have to.

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This has been an edition of Sunday Photo Fiction, hosted by Al Forbes. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button:

It’s not every day we have a chance to reinvent ourselves.

He jumped, as if the words had been spoken aloud, but there was no one. And nothing—nothing except the sharp curl of road, the overturned convertible and smoke belching out from the undercarriage in larger and larger clouds. How had he survived? He checked himself once more: a gash on his knee and a cut on his ear from when he’d flown free from the car. But aside from that, he was fine.

He studied the vast empty valley in all directions and realized no one would be by for hours. And damn, his car. No insurance, three payments behind. And then there was the matter of the forty-minute daily drive to the only job in three counties that would hire him. He was so fired.

And Sheila. What was that always she said? If you ever drink a drop and lay a hand on that wheel, don’t bother ever coming home.

The gas tank made an ominous thunk. He thought of the struggle of holding this wreckage of a life together. He could do so much better.

He should.

He turned, and started walking–off the road, and into the wild unknown.

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This has been an edition of Sunday Photo Fiction, hosted by Al Forbes. To read more or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button:

Sunday Photo Fiction

The wretched pounding in his head had gone on for what seemed like hours before he realized it was outside his parlor as well as in. What time was it, anyway? He opened a bleary eye to see last night’s Cateau Mouton inexplicably aslant in the glass on his bedside table.

“Mr. Alderschoff. Mr. Alderschoff, are you in there?”

Mr. Alderschoff closed his eyes and reassembled the evening in his mind.  What had started as manhattans in the Smoking Lounge had turned into a dozen or more bottles of wine. And then, champagne.

He’d made it to dinner, but midway through the roast squab, he’d had to excuse himself. With an ungainly hiccup, he’d plucked his wineglass by the stem. “If you ladies please…” He broke off. He’d intend to suggest he was off to the smoking parlor for a fine cigar, but the velocity of the spinning dining room was threatening to bring up the first three courses of the ten-course meal.  Then, the blur of falling on the grand staircase and staggering into Mrs. Brown in the hall outside his state room.

Enough with the liquor and nonsense, he decided. Last night was the last time he’d do that.

His eyes shot open at the shout that accompanied the next knock: “Mr. Alderschoff, we’ve hit an iceberg!”

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This has been an edition of Sunday Photo Fiction prompt, hosted by Al Forbes. To read more flash fiction based on the prompt, or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button:

Dinosaurs were so last season, or at least it seemed that way. Wendy had hit up two toy stores without finding any, before finally landing at the dollar store. Within seconds she’d cleared out their inventory: two velociraptors, an improbably upright T-rex and something that might have been a triceratops. It would have to do. After that, she headed to the dollar store in West Dundee and then the one in Carpentersville.

She’d been at this for six weeks now. Not the dinosaurs—the appointments. Six appointments, and the boy had yet to even make eye contact. It was the toughest case she’d had. And she was supposed to be the expert.

When his appointment time came, she took a deep breath and opened the door. Her heart pounded as his mother led the boy in, pulled his chair out and set him before the play table. By now, the mother’s expression had gone from hope to resignation. As the door closed behind her, Wendy approached the boy. He sat, as always, with a vacant stare, the dirty rubber dinosaur clutched in one hand. Wendy dumped her new purchases on the table. “Today, let’s try something different.”

And for the first time, the boy looked up.

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This has been an edition of the Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. To read more flash fiction inspired by the prompt, or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button: