Certainly, sir. We have a range of paranormal spectacles.
Yes, our mood range. The rose lens lets you view the world in eternal, euphoric happiness. Our blue ones present a cynical world of bitterness and grievance. Apparently, they are very popular with politicians. Our nostalgic glasses will let you wallow in a mud pool of missed opportunities and shameful regrets. However, this monocle will swell you with pride as you relive achievements and insurmountable success at the expense of others.
These, in cotton wool to avoid distortion, give a view of our future. You may not like what you see.
This week’s picture is symbolic of a light from heaven floating above a church steeple. The image made me think of the UK television comedy show ‘Father Ted’. It portrays a shambolic group of priests, and particularly the character, Father Jack, who is a mad alcoholic lunatic.
This week’s Friday Fictioneers picture prompt from Krista Strutz, showing an Eagle, is a reminder to me of the constant struggle in Scotland. The Golden Eagle and numbers of other birds of prey are in decline and the efforts to encourage them to flourish are not popular. The birds prey on game, partridge and grouse, and sometimes young lambs and the idea of striking a balance between the wildlife and people’s livelihood is controversial.
Stuffed Bald Eagle–Trophy
John stood transfixed and his heart rate fluttered. At first, he let the paddle board drift as he watched the eagle land so close. The magnificent creature stared at him, as if deciding whether he was a threat.
He remained calm and tried to hold the board against the current. He had never been so close to a Bald Eagle, and he savoured every second. Some people would pay a fortune for this trophy stuffed and on display.
Would people believe him? He wanted to shoot it and prove them wrong. However, he had left his camera-kit in the car.
‘There’s one. Oh, it’s gone.’ The crocodile dived, creating a cloud of silt.
Caroline detested John’s profession of photography. He stopped her from going to the golf course with Jenny. Lovely, soft Jenny. You’re my wife, John had demanded. Together, we are going croc hunting. Yes, their problem; together was everything he ordered.
From the boat, she trailed her hand in the water and thought of Jenny. Sweet, warm-hearted Jenny. Oh, the bliss, when she massaged her legs and kissed–.
‘Look, another one.’ He leaned over the side, snapping away.
‘Careful! You’ll fall in.’ She grinned, rocking the boat.
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.