Friday, and the Fictioneers; about 100 words inspired by the photo below. (I know, I know. But this story started out at almost two hundred words; 130 is a lot of trimming.)
Of course, every person who looks at this week’s picture will take something different from it. You don’t want to settle for just my version when you can find links to all the other stories at Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ site. Check out what all the other Fictioneers came up with – but first, please tell me what you think of my story.
The wall of gray blocks; the grayish tan blocks of the neighboring building. Charcoal gray flagstones paving the courtyard, stripes of pale sand marking their junctions. But the light would go soon.
Quickly, neatly, he stacked the dishes, carried them out of harm’s way, set up the easel. Time blurred like the paint sweeping over the canvas. Noise, a doorbell, brought time back.
At the door? Ella, her husband, a strange girl. Pretty. He grinned at the girl, studying the colors of her face, her hair. Ella pushed past him. “Some host you are,” she said. She turned to the stranger. “I warned you how my brother is. He can paint, though. And he can pay to take us to a restaurant. Once he finds a shirt that he hasn’t wiped brushes on.”