Perspective is an infinitely interesting subject considering that every person has a uniquely different one.
With that in mind, I’ve given our writer, DALatta, the task of taking an image and writing us a short fictional story based upon what he “feels” about it. Take a moment to read his words…and then give us some of your own. What is your perspective on this photo?
Oblivious to the wiper squeaking against the dry windshield, Ron ran his car a little too fast for this neighborhood. The service started at 2 and he didn’t want to be one of those who entered the church late only to have everybody turn around and look at him. His daughter had called him, car keys in hand, to remind him that her soccer game was at 9am tomorrow. He had her game schedule on the refrigerator but he normally welcomed her calls. “Okay sweetie, Daddy’s got to go now. I’m going to a funeral. An old friend from college. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hated cutting her call short but he was already strapped for time.
Pulling into the parking lot, he was surprised at the amount of cars. Bobby certainly was popular, he thought as he strode toward the front door, his shoes taking in moisture from the wet pavement. Moving into the church, he sat in the first available seat, which happened to be next to his college girlfriend, Sylvia. Only a silent acknowledgement at this time as the pastor was ambling toward the dais.
Despite the inviting allure of Sylvia’s perfume, Ron kept his eyes straight ahead but he soon noticed more of his past. In about 5 minutes, he recognized 6 more friends and with each identification came more memories. The most prevalent being an overtly dramatic Scottish accent used by his cronies in times of drunken reverie. The accuracy of the dialect wasn’t as important as the volume and spit that would spew forth when emphasizing words like,”FAULKED” and “ARSEHOLE” and ‘WEE BIT OF A PROBLEM”. A smile crept over his face as the accent moved closer to his tongue and he was about to say something when he was interrupted by a familiar female voice,”It’s so sad, isn’t it?”
“Aye that it is, lass. Aye that it is.” A stifled laugh shot through the church that caught the attention of those close by.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, “I was watching some movie the other day, Braveheart, I think, and I kept thinking of you and Bobby and everybody using that stupid accent.”
The service moved on and they chatted quietly, reacquainting each other to their respective pasts. There was an easiness that floated through the conversation that Ron found comforting, as if 20 plus years of silence had been erased by a ghostly wave of his dead friend’s hand. After the service, the rest of the gang collected in front of the church, shook hands, hugged and introduced the new partners in their lives. The meeting moved to a nearby lounge and as the afternoon turned into the evening, the volume of the laughter increased. The stories, unearthed after decades took on more importance. The tears fell from heart felt melancholy. Even the liquor tasted sweeter as it brought on more stories, like an impending tide.
Eventually the evening had to end. They said their goodbyes and promised to call each other and stay in touch. After giving Sylvia his address, Ron walked to his car thinking about how funerals really were for the living.