Sunday Photo Fiction

Posted Sunday February 21

The Reverand Caruthers decided it was time to hang up his cassock. Today would be his final service.

It was very much the same as any other Sunday. Mumbled prayers, a wheezing organ, tuneless singing. Until that is, the Reverend Caruthers stood in front of his parishioners to deliver his final sermon. Starting softly, he gradually built up steam. 

Then came the climax. His prediction of doom, (A booming chord from the organ) his admonitions (Another booming chord, this time with a couple of wrong notes) Now he was bellowing. The congregation looked startled, afraid even.

Then he stopped. It wasn't a theatrical pause. No, he was scrabbling around beneath his vestments for his handkerchief. 

They began to hear a low rumble. It got louder until it became a deep roaring throb. Some crossed themselves; others fell to their knees. The priest raised his finger heavenward. "The end is nigh" he thundered above the racket. Then he sneezed and the front row ducked.

Then the booming ceased.

The church door burst open, crashing against a bookshelf. Hymnals and bibles flew across the floor. 

“Whoopsie” said a voice.

In swaggered a leather-clad biker, all studs and hair. Through the wispy strands of his beard, you could just make out a clerical collar. “Sorry I’m late Vic” he shouted.Sundays would never be the same again! 

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