I figured I would try something new this week. After reading Paul D. Brazil's excellent short fiction, I thought I would give it a shot this week. After my effort here and other previous attempts, let me say it is not simple to tell a story of sorts in under 150 words. Paul does wonderful stuff with six lines. Me well, I'm trying here to sneak up on that idea. I trimmed it down to eight. Well, not eight maybe, but it's short. Nothing verbose about this piece.
Thanks to Cormac for putting this together.
The old camera had been in a box for decades, the pictures never developed, and now with the prints in his hand his blood ran cold from looking at the images that came from it.
It wasn't that the images were out of focus. They weren't.
It wasn't even the subject matter. Dead people and blood did not bother him.
It bothered him not the slightest these photos might become evidence used against him.
And yet as he handled each print, each and every one told the same story.
It was that jacket, the one he still wore to this day
It always went better with an ascot, not that flippin Red Bow Tie.
After all, it wasn't what he cooked, but how he looked when he cooked that mattered.
(130 / 10,010)