This week’s picture prompt for Friday Fictioneers adds a sense of modern humour, taking a selfie of a selfie!
More story contributions from Friday Fictioneers can be accessed here.
The Aliens are Here
Something caressed his face as goosebumps erupted along his arms, and a cold air whispered, ‘Martha’. John looked in the mirror. “Is that really you? I miss you.” Since Martha passed, his sixth sense alerted him to soft moans and shadows that danced across the mirror. He was not alone.
For goodness’ sake, he was a scientist searching the universe for intelligent beings on other planets. Yet grief warped his imagination towards believing in the paranormal.
What was life without Martha?
Were the aliens observing him and trying to communicate? He sensed the cactus plant was reporting his every move.
This week’s picture prompt of a rotting tree stump (provided by Sandra Crook) made me think of orchards and how , at one time, they were the life and soul of many villages along the Clyde valley. An industry that is rooted in the past. However, commercial decline is not the only reason that villages are torn apart–look around the world today.
I have based my story on experiences from Bosnia.
The usual mix of contributions by other members of the group can be found here.
Photo Prompt By Sandra Crook
Our World our Village
As you stare across the wasteland, you can see there was a village here; once. Point down the valley where the trees were, and people nod and look away. We remember childhoods learning together and laughing in the classrooms. In the autumn, families congregated in the orchards, in the wood mills, and harvested the crops. We were an entwined community of good neighbours, innocent lovers, and with marriages of everlasting bonds.
The fanatical nationalists terrorised us with a medieval past, infesting our streets with their hateful ethnic cleansing.
Today, we stand in silence, holding hands in remembrance of our roots.
The uprooted trees symbolised the turmoil in her thoughts, a burning itch of fire ants on her skin. The bitter drink aggravated the snake coiled in her belly, a mixture of freedom with the dread of discovery.
Last night’s tempest thundered like a herd of stampeding buffalo battering the hotel with spears of rain, and the window crashed across the room. She acted on impulse, a frenzied flash of angry until the bedsheets resembled an impressionist canvas of red.
Her cup rattled in the morning quiet. The train departs at seven and she will travel alone.
I am amazed how the BMW in Liz Young’s photo-prompt does not appear to have any damage, considering the wall and railings are in pieces.
You can read more Friday Fictioneer’s contributions and stories here.
She drives wearing high heels, rummages in her handbag and, at junctions, if she stops, she has to text the kids. When we are in the car, she will nag at me. You missed the kids’ school play and games day–-a crime in her eyes. The traffic accident held me up. I didn’t get home until midnight. Apparently, I never liked her Mum. Hell! the poor lady died before we met.
You are wearing the wrong shirt, and Martha will comment on it.
My daughter Sally-Anne married Billy-Joe, and for years they have lived at home with us. It’s time; my wife, Elly, agreed. Since Sally and Billy are expecting twins, they should have their own place. It would stop all the fighting and arguments about space and who owns the washing machine.
We bought one of them prefabricated homes and put it down by the creek, not too far as Elly wants to be near the grandchildren. But just far enough to keep us all apart; sweet and happy.
The trouble is, Sally won’t agree about who gets to look after Grandma.
My thanks go to Dale for her picture of a flooded patio area, after a heavy rainstorm. Does this happen every year or just occasionally?
Many will suggest climate change as the reason for the flooding. Although climate change has been a constant drift over hundreds of years, we now know how this drift has sped up over the last tens of years. But as a planet of humans, are we heading for extinction?
Extinction is not a choice–Survivors
We stood in a circle and held hands. Everyone understood the ritual; our strength and fortitude were the foundations of the past and our future.
Greta, believe us; we will not move and live in the forests. Our generations have survived by this lake, our home.
We are the descendants from Lucy and accept Earth is a living monster of storms and earthquakes with an infestation of a multitude of life. As the environment changes, we will embrace technology and adapt.
Let us honour Mother Earth as she nurtures us.
We pray for humanity since extinction is not a choice.