PHOTO PROMPT © JS Brand
‘You sure this is the place?’ asked Valdez.
The hotel’s corrugated iron roof was rusted and dripping dingy rainwater into the river. A sign above the door was feathery with curling paint.
The boatman nodded, palm open.
At the reception desk stood an elderly lady, her grey hair whipped into a bun, head tilted towards a radio. A waltz crackled from the speaker.
‘Senora Martin? I’m a police officer. I need to speak to you about your son.’
She looked up, revealing one pearly cataract. ‘He’s dead?’ She smiled, a single tear falling from her blind eye.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. See the pic and write a tale and don’t forget to read and comment here.
What do we think Senora Martin’s son did to make her smile at his passing? Answers on a postcard please. Alternatively, you could just comment in the box below, which is a much better idea.
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