fallow-deer-602253_1280

“Wake up everyone! She is finally blooming,” the old Rose bush shouted.

The Lilacs leaned over to examine the bud they had all watched for so long. It was a new species and one they had never seen before.

“I tell you it is just a weed. Blew in off the southern breeze and now we have to share our garden with it,” the Dandelions roared in disgust.

A hanging Wisteria whacked the back of one of the Dandelions, silencing it, and forcing a light dusting of spores to break free.

One by one, small green triangles gently peeled away exposing a white core with purple frosted tips.

Morning dew steamed gently under the rising sun as the first light poured into the garden.

All were silent.

Suddenly, the Rose bush seized, popping off all her thorns. The Lilacs withered down to nearly nothing, desperate to be forgotten. The Dandelions exploded seeking refuge along any willing wind current.

The Wisteria, she recoiled up into her high perch and watched.

She watched the carnage and the reckless mayhem.

The Deer grunted and crushed the young sojourning flower between its flat teeth.

Once there was a flower that was supposed to be, but never was. That flower drifted into a Garden that was to be home, but never was.

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Sunday Photo Fiction – September 20th 2015

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September 20th, 2015

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five-elements-379106_1280

“Leave a glass of red wine for the Fire Elementals,” my Mother would say.

I’d always ask, “Where?” just so she would tell me one of her stories.

Mom was an accomplished leader of a local coven of Witches. They mostly got together in the back yard on Saturday Nights. I always liked it because they would let me roast marshmallows on the fire pit while they danced around.

“Over by the fireplace,” she then went on to explain. “Chimneys, in any form mind you, are the gateways through which we can interact with the Elementals. When I was a girl we just called them, Fe’ Tunnels,” she stared at her own reflection painted on the black glass window of the night. Remaining quiet.

“Funny thing that,” she said looking at herself.

“What?” I went and stood next to her. I discovered she was not transfixed on her reflection at all. There was a full vision of her past life playing out right before us on the black glass.

“Mom,” I whispered.

“Ignis cuniculum,” she whispered.

We watched on as a young Roman girl placed a small clay cup of wine near the open fire pit of a small stone home.

Sunday Photo Fiction – August 30th 2015

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A Room in the Roman Painted House Dover

A Room in the Roman Painted House, Dover

September 2nd, 2015

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ufo-788746_1280

The music was loud and thumped through every rivet of the hull. A party at sea meant you could make as much noise as you wanted.

“Where are we?” the young party goer shouted as she leaned into the Captain’s ear. Her body bopped and swayed with the music.

“About fifty miles off the coast of San Diego,” he shouted back.

“Cool!” she took a sip of her mixed drink as the Captain beckoned her ear back with a wave of his finger.

“Gotta be careful out there though,” his beard tickled her ear.

“Why?” she giggled as the Captain pointed his finger skyward.

Her drunken gaze struggled to follow it but her wide eyes told him she was sober enough to see them.

A big circular object twice as wide as the ship was spinning very fast above them. The other party goers were quickly ascending skyward in bright beams of light. Each body seemed to shoot up in rhythm with the beats.

He took her hand gently and kissed it smiling at her.

“Pleasure,” he said as her drink fell to the ground and her grip snapped away.

One by one they were all taken until just the Captain remained. His swift salute dismissed the giant craft and it disappeared in the blink of an eye.

He gathered a fresh box of black trash bags and started to clean up, bobbing his head to the music as it still blared. Human trafficking has gone interstellar.

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Sunday Photo Fiction – August 9th 2015

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Docked sail cruise ship at night

spf

August 12th, 2015

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ijones

The final piece clicked into place on the pyramid.

“Get back!” Ford shouted to his excavation team.

Indiana Ford was damp from jungle humidity and nerves.

He sat the puzzle pyramid on top of a small stone snake statue; hates that thing.

Ancient mechanisms whirred and clicked to life all around them forcing great stone obelisks to break the earthen seals of their old tombs.

Ford and his team scrambled toward the foliage seeking firmer ground among the trees.

Six great monolithic monuments rose; with the tiny puzzle pyramid at their core they were an ominous sight.

Fear gripped the men as decorated symbols in the rough stone surfaces began to pulse with a blue glow.

They all were quick to scatter leaving Ford by himself with the device sparking and humming now.

He stared transfixed at the tiny puzzle pyramid waiting for it reveal the meaning of all this.

There among the sparks and arcs of electricity his Father’s face appeared, “Junior!”

Indiana’s knees wobbled slightly at the sight of his dead Father. The feeling was quickly overcome by an all too familiar frustration when his dad used that name.

“I told you never to call me that,” he said.

Al Forbes

Al Forbes

Sunday Photo Fiction

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spf

August 4th, 2015

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puglife

“Execute this foul creature post haste,” the King commanded.

Heads in the throne room twisted about to see who among them had been condemned. The young squire of a visiting Knight trembled in fear at the end of the King’s authoritative gaze.

“Friends do you not smell the stench? This young man has spoiled himself where he stands.”

The entire Royal Court began to take notice of the small throne room being quickly enveloped in the fragrance of sewage.

“Quickly now. We shall resume council in the east wing dining room.”

Strong guards seized the young man ignoring the pleas for mercy and innocence from his Knight. He was promptly beheaded in the square.

That evening as the maids were cleaning the throne room the stench remained.

The keenest nosed among them was determined to track the smell. She was lead to the King’s own royal cushion. There a dark brown stain was found, crusted deep into the intricate embroidery. A pact thick as a bloodline sisterhood was instantly bestowed upon the women. No one who valued their life would breathe a word of the royal shat. Not that you wanted to breathe in there anyway.

Henry VIII’s throne, Dover Castle, UK

Henry VIII’s throne,
Dover Castle, UK

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Sunday Photo Fiction – July 19th 2015

spf

July 20th, 2015

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