Shopping with the Druids

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A solemn figure dressed in brown robes walked slowly through the crisp morning air, moving deeper and deeper into the dark forest.  She stopped and knelt in front of a giant, ancient oak tree.

Bending her head towards the damp ground she said, “Great oak, keeper of earthly spirits, giver of humble utility, grant me an implement to turn the soil so that we may plant seeds to feed our family and keep them strong and vibrant. I invoke thee sacred tree.”

She looked up.  A small toy horse materialized in the bark.  She whipped her head around.

“Tommy!”

“Sorry, Mum.”

 

Prompt from FridayFictioneers.   PHOTO PROMPT © J.S. Brand

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A Childish Game

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The invading ships of the alien army encircled the globe in all directions, ready to attack.  The alien leader, taking the form of a small boy, walked through the parlor of an abandoned house.  He suddenly paused, bent down, and studied the chess pieces and patterned board with intense concentration.  It reminded him of a strategy game he had played in youth-time on his home planet.

His eyes gleamed as he realized Earth would be harder to defeat than had originally been predicted.

He hesitated, then placed his index finger on the tip of his nose.

The signal to attack.

 

Prompt from FridayFictioneers.    PHOTO PROMPT © Jeff Arnold

Modern Psychology

rogers-skylight

“A little to the right.  Up this way.  Now don’t move,” said Brett.

Brett twisted black knobs and pushed silver buttons on the console.  He looked up at Jasmine.

“Last chance.  Once I push this button there’s no way to undo what’s been done.”

“I’m ready,” she said.

A giant blue beam bolted from the eye-like circle on the ceiling and shot into Jasmine.  Seconds later the beam disappeared, Jasmine fell to the floor, and the blank panels surrounding the dome filled with still portraits of traumatic scenes from her life.

Brett looked up and began to formulate his diagnosis.

 

Prompt from FridayFictioneers.  PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

The Garden

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As a boy, Claude had planted  two rows of the fentil sprouts in an open meadow beside a stream where he assumed they would be safe.

One hundred years later Claude returned and discovered his sprouts had grown and were now surrounded by strange stone structures.

In his anger, he stepped into a rectangular pool the size of his foot and fell sideways crushing the rock buildings.

He sat wearily up, brushed mangled cars from his face, and took a bite of a fentil sprout, savoring the taste.  Beneath him, people scattered in all directions, covered in wet sprout leaves.

 

Prompt from Friday Fictioneers.  PHOTO PROMPT ©  Sandra Crook

Young Man Brian

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The young man Brian was filled with rage born in early childhood having been beaten and left to die by uncaring parents.

He outlasted death and grew to a giant size.  Boxing became his savior, but he refused to compete in the ring.  This angered his coach.

One day, the young man Brian bent his eyes on the heavy boulder in front of the gym.  He stepped outside and brought his sledgehammer hand down on the rock.

It split in half.

The boxers inside prayed even harder that the young man Brian would never decide to fight in the ring.

 

Prompt from Friday Fictioneers.  PHOTO PROMPT ©  J Hardy Carroll

The Weaver And The Fly

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The tiny weaver spun its silk scaffolding under the dying petals. The morning sun would bring gnats, flies, and with luck, a fat caterpillar, its favorite.   Days since its last feast, it burned with hunger.

It watched and waited from under the tangle of snake stems above the withered petals.  Time cycled on, its life  neared the end.

A fly buzzed straight into the netting, trapped.

Eight ferocious legs flashed up, instinct unleashed.

A sudden wind sucked the weaver into a hovering ship.  Light years away, the observers fed its hunger.

The fly struggled, a solitary witness to first contact.

 

Prompt from Friday Fictioneers.  PHOTO PROMPT © Marie Gail Stratford

Snow Glare

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He was in his mid thirties, single, worked at night, and slept during the day.  I know because I spent the winter with a broken limb watching him through my window.

One snowy morning, he parked his SUV in the driveway and trudged around to his front door.

Why park outside when its thirty below? A hoarders den? Additional room?

Curious, I limped across the street, broke into his car, and clicked open the garage door.  Inside was a large empty space with a chair sitting silent in the middle.

Plagued by thoughts, I stopped stalking him and moved away.

 

Prompt from Friday Fictioneers.     PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson