Future Perfect
It had taken some time to bring the fixer-upper to a standard he could happily call home.
He was in the company of all who cursed the pope amid the loyalist festivities.
He dusted and buffed his bowler unto that classy matt gleam. His sash shone with the pride of centuries.
“Why not be ‘triumphalist’?”
There was no response. None needed.
He wore long johns and fleece under the treasured regalia.
"A dry day," he affirmed.
He practiced a few tunes on his fife and strode purposefully from his front door.
Alone he trod the permafrost-patterned ground of Devon Island.
From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid