Flash 52: The Franklin Date
I'm doing a project
this year called Flash 52 - in which I attempt to write one flash
fiction (1k words or less) story per week from prompts I came up with
last month. This week's story will be available for one
week.
The Franklin Date
She was late.
Dean checked his watch again, loathe to admit he'd been stood up. She'd seemed sincere enough online, and they'd been talking for months, but apparently he'd really misread her digital signals. Pacing by the door to the upscale restaurant where he'd made a reservation, he wondered how much more time he should give her. Another five minutes - or maybe ten.
Large rectangular planters sat on either side of the door, the edge wide enough to provide extra seating. He lowered himself onto the cold stone, and lowered his hands to rest beside him. A car drove past, illuminating the space around him and a bit of wadded up paper under the bushes behind him caught his eye.
Retrieving it, he pulled it open and raised his eyebrows. Staring back at him was Ben Franklin himself, and there was something written on the bill that Dean couldn't quite make out in the dim light. He rose and went to stand under a lantern hanging on the side of the building. Squinting, he could just barely make out a single word:
Library.
He checked his watch again, then looked both ways down the sidewalk. Still no sign of a woman in a red dress, and he was tired of waiting. Odds are good the library wouldn't be any more exciting, but he felt compelled to at least visit and see for himself that the message was meaningless.
Stopping in quickly to leave the money with the surprised host, he caught a cab and within ten minutes, found his way across town to a massive brick building with imposing columns out front. Paying the driver, he bolted up the stairs, grateful that he'd made it with half an hour to closing time. At the reference desk, he looked up Ben Franklin and found the shelves where his work was housed. Flipping through every book, he found himself more disappointed than he'd expected when there was nothing.
Turning to leave, he glanced across the shelf once more and smiled. Barely visible from any angle save his exact one was the corner of a bill peeking out from under the shelf just above Franklin's books.
Gently extracting it, he examined the bill closely. This one was fake, but good quality, nonetheless. Next to Ben's face, one word had been scrawled in ink, just like the last time.
Kites.
His brow creased, he pocketed the bill and tried to decide what to do next. The clue was so vague - was it a kite shop, or somewhere people normally fly kites? Not at all sure where he'd find either, he decided to check out the nearest store, and if it led nowhere he'd go home. After a brief stop at the reference counter to look up kite stores online, he jogged ou tthe door and down the street, two blocks to find the quaint little shop closed.
Quickly peeking through the glass door, Dean turned to go, his jacket catching on something by the door. Reaching down to unsnag it, he pulled the fabric off of a metal diamond-shaped kite anchored in a large flower pot. Unable to resist, he checked the back by running his fingers along the surface. Hardly able to believe it, he pulled up another fake bill, and hurried over to a streetlight to examine the face. This time though, instead of a word, there was only an arrow pointing to Franklin's head.
Dean straightened, looking up and down the street as he tried to figure out where he was supposed to go next. Where would he go to find the man himself?
Only one building on the block still had lights burning in the window, and he considered getting a second opinion. He wasn't sure why it was so important to see it through, but there was no turning back now. It wasn't until he crossed the street that he took note of the old-style sign hanging above the entrance.
Franklin's Wig Shop.
Pulling the door open, he went inside, finding himself surrounded by fake hair in every color and length. At the counter, an attractive woman leaned over a mass of brunette curls.
"Can I help you?" she said, without looking up.
He laid the fake bills on the counter. "I've been following the clues on these for the past hour. I was hoping you could tell me what it all means."
She glanced over at them, and finally met his gaze with a sheepish grin.
"My little brother is a marketing major with an interest in sociology. I'm afraid you're a victim of his latest promotion experiment."
Dean chuckled. "Well, it worked, but I just spent an hour following clues around the city for a service I really don't need. Some people might get a little irritated about that."
She laughed. "I appreciate you having a sense of humor about it. I'm sure he'll have a better idea next week. He usually does."
"It's hard to be upset when I get to meet such a beautiful woman. Although I did miss dinner for this little treasure hunt."
"I guess an apology is in order then." She went to the cash register. "Would you like the shop to reimburse you for dinner? Within reason, of course."
He shook his head, waiting until she looked at him again. He was going to have to send his internet friend a thank-you for not showing up.
"No, but I would like you to let me buy you dinner. It's the least you could do, don't you think?" He gave her his most charming smile, enjoying the rosy color creeping into her cheeks. "When do you close up?"
She glanced at the clock on the wall. "Half hour ago, actually. I lost track of time."
"So you'll come?" He held out his hand. "I'm Dean Jackson, by the way."
She hesitated for a moment, then smiled. "Sure. Why not. It's nice to meet you, Dean. I'm Sarah Franklin."
this year called Flash 52 - in which I attempt to write one flash
fiction (1k words or less) story per week from prompts I came up with
last month. This week's story will be available for one
week.
The Franklin Date
She was late.
Dean checked his watch again, loathe to admit he'd been stood up. She'd seemed sincere enough online, and they'd been talking for months, but apparently he'd really misread her digital signals. Pacing by the door to the upscale restaurant where he'd made a reservation, he wondered how much more time he should give her. Another five minutes - or maybe ten.
Large rectangular planters sat on either side of the door, the edge wide enough to provide extra seating. He lowered himself onto the cold stone, and lowered his hands to rest beside him. A car drove past, illuminating the space around him and a bit of wadded up paper under the bushes behind him caught his eye.
Retrieving it, he pulled it open and raised his eyebrows. Staring back at him was Ben Franklin himself, and there was something written on the bill that Dean couldn't quite make out in the dim light. He rose and went to stand under a lantern hanging on the side of the building. Squinting, he could just barely make out a single word:
Library.
He checked his watch again, then looked both ways down the sidewalk. Still no sign of a woman in a red dress, and he was tired of waiting. Odds are good the library wouldn't be any more exciting, but he felt compelled to at least visit and see for himself that the message was meaningless.
Stopping in quickly to leave the money with the surprised host, he caught a cab and within ten minutes, found his way across town to a massive brick building with imposing columns out front. Paying the driver, he bolted up the stairs, grateful that he'd made it with half an hour to closing time. At the reference desk, he looked up Ben Franklin and found the shelves where his work was housed. Flipping through every book, he found himself more disappointed than he'd expected when there was nothing.
Turning to leave, he glanced across the shelf once more and smiled. Barely visible from any angle save his exact one was the corner of a bill peeking out from under the shelf just above Franklin's books.
Gently extracting it, he examined the bill closely. This one was fake, but good quality, nonetheless. Next to Ben's face, one word had been scrawled in ink, just like the last time.
Kites.
His brow creased, he pocketed the bill and tried to decide what to do next. The clue was so vague - was it a kite shop, or somewhere people normally fly kites? Not at all sure where he'd find either, he decided to check out the nearest store, and if it led nowhere he'd go home. After a brief stop at the reference counter to look up kite stores online, he jogged ou tthe door and down the street, two blocks to find the quaint little shop closed.
Quickly peeking through the glass door, Dean turned to go, his jacket catching on something by the door. Reaching down to unsnag it, he pulled the fabric off of a metal diamond-shaped kite anchored in a large flower pot. Unable to resist, he checked the back by running his fingers along the surface. Hardly able to believe it, he pulled up another fake bill, and hurried over to a streetlight to examine the face. This time though, instead of a word, there was only an arrow pointing to Franklin's head.
Dean straightened, looking up and down the street as he tried to figure out where he was supposed to go next. Where would he go to find the man himself?
Only one building on the block still had lights burning in the window, and he considered getting a second opinion. He wasn't sure why it was so important to see it through, but there was no turning back now. It wasn't until he crossed the street that he took note of the old-style sign hanging above the entrance.
Franklin's Wig Shop.
Pulling the door open, he went inside, finding himself surrounded by fake hair in every color and length. At the counter, an attractive woman leaned over a mass of brunette curls.
"Can I help you?" she said, without looking up.
He laid the fake bills on the counter. "I've been following the clues on these for the past hour. I was hoping you could tell me what it all means."
She glanced over at them, and finally met his gaze with a sheepish grin.
"My little brother is a marketing major with an interest in sociology. I'm afraid you're a victim of his latest promotion experiment."
Dean chuckled. "Well, it worked, but I just spent an hour following clues around the city for a service I really don't need. Some people might get a little irritated about that."
She laughed. "I appreciate you having a sense of humor about it. I'm sure he'll have a better idea next week. He usually does."
"It's hard to be upset when I get to meet such a beautiful woman. Although I did miss dinner for this little treasure hunt."
"I guess an apology is in order then." She went to the cash register. "Would you like the shop to reimburse you for dinner? Within reason, of course."
He shook his head, waiting until she looked at him again. He was going to have to send his internet friend a thank-you for not showing up.
"No, but I would like you to let me buy you dinner. It's the least you could do, don't you think?" He gave her his most charming smile, enjoying the rosy color creeping into her cheeks. "When do you close up?"
She glanced at the clock on the wall. "Half hour ago, actually. I lost track of time."
"So you'll come?" He held out his hand. "I'm Dean Jackson, by the way."
She hesitated for a moment, then smiled. "Sure. Why not. It's nice to meet you, Dean. I'm Sarah Franklin."
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