708 Fulton. Strange, that name.
Having received an urgent call from an oddly familiar voice to meet there, Douglas entered. It turned out to be a small but comfortable coffee shop boasting a stained glass image of the sun rising behind a cup of hot coffee, seemingly symbolic of one of the few things in life George truly enjoyed.
As he sipped, George felt 708 Fulton to be a place of respite from his inadequacies, failed dreams, and the entire cold godless universe.
"Never heard of this place before," he said to a passing barista.
"Little wonder, my friend. 708 Fulton is heaven, dude."
"I'm in heaven?"
"Different for every person."
And the universe was no longer cold for one Douglas Fulton Smith.
Photo prompt above and story beneath, the above is my contribution to this week's installment of the Fabulous Friday Fictioneers' and Brother Love's Travelin' Salvation Show. (Note: Other than that one song, I pretty much hate Neil Diamond.)
I came in at 123 words this week, not too shabby but still off the mark. We'll see what the new year brings.
Happy New Year, Fictioneers!