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.
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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!
