Where He Called Home #Friday Fictioneers

“Isn’t that Stu’s bike over there?”
The bartender wiped the last pint glass clean, set it down, and glanced outside at the sycamore tree.
“Yeah, that’s his all right.”
“Someone buy it or something?”
“Nope.  Been there ever since he died.”
“I thought he…”
“Died at home, yeah,” said the bartender.  “But on the day he passed, I looked outside at four thirty or so and there’s the damned bike.  Could have sworn it wasn’t there at opening.”
“Didn’t old Stu come by every day…”
“Around four thirty.  Like clockwork.”

———-

I return after a one week intermission!  I have briefly traded the steamy forests of North Carolina to the pleasantly dry and treeless expanse of New Mexico.  I promise I’ll be better about keeping up the weekly serving of fiction from now on!  Anyway…Every Friday, writers from all around the world write 100 word (or thereabouts) flash fiction based on a photo posted that Wednesday on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog.

I welcome constructive criticism; without it I cannot grow as a writer.  The weekly photo that inspired this story is below: