Sunday Morning

He remembers hating the formal dress of Sunday morning. Khakis and a button-down shirt felt so constrictive, especially compared to his Saturday uniform: shorts and a t-shirt. Even worse, no one ever gave him a satisfactory answer as to why they must dress so formally, when the Bible made very clear that God actually prefers the poor and the ragged over the richly attired.

It's strange to miss something you don't believe in, but there was a comfort in not having to make a decision.

Now every Sunday morning he spends much longer than he should selecting what to wear.

Homage To Discworld King

The tall caped figure dismounted the midnight horse and negotiated cracked paving to knock on nondescript door.

Bright dancing eyes and grey beard yanked it open. “Well?”

Taken aback, Death cleared his throat. “HELLO.”

“Bugger ‘HELLO’, what kept you?”

“UM!”

Author pushed past the cowled figure.

“ER… DON’T YOU WANT TO DRESS?” Death waved a skeletal digit at the grimy T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops.

Author pointed his beard aggressively. “That would be rather pointless now, wouldn’t it?”

Death sighed and followed the little man to the waiting steed. He was sure he’d forgotten something.

“OH YES.”

He raised the scythe.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Vacation 2250

Still a little queasy, she stepped out of the ‘Beach Hut,’ glad the temporal capsule was not constrained to contemporary hygiene amenities.

Feeling vulnerable in her figure-hugging woollen tank suit – despite built-in modesty shorts – she moved to the water’s edge and marvelled at the carefree gambolling of the beachgoers: naive inhabitants of the Interwar Era, taking time off from the trials of the Great Depression.

Her ocular bioscan implant picked him out from the crowd: Tommy.

She grinned at the one-piece swimsuit her great-grandfather wore.

Translucent seawater free of corrosive algae was an emotional revelation.

She hadn’t expected to cry.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid