Porthole

Old Flash

The light streaming in [177.315] (276 words) Jan 19, 21.

Dead is dead. Sandra felt worse than dead. Donell was on his way to the corner store. She couldn't stop him. Her nightmares were about to take on flesh.

Her hands shook. She needed her meds. And quick. That's why she'd sent Donell. Such a reasonable request. Then she heard a distant screech and crash. She'd forgotten her sister's curse.

"If I can't have him neither can you." Monique had spat out the words along with a stream of pistachio ice cream before storming out. Sandra's best blouse was still splotched with green, if you looked real close.

She'd forgotten how Monique had a knack for being right. She put her hands together as if they could console one another. Like in prayer she thought. "Oh God, protect Donell." She spoke in a whisper.

Music floated in through the window...

"And I can see your little bouncing ball ,
And I found love with no sense at all."

...and faded away. Honeyhoney knew what she felt. She and Donell had taken a trip to Memphis... just last summer. He'd sang that song to her on the way.

He should be back, she thought. He'll never come back, she thought.

The door opened. "Donell?"

It was Monique. "Car ran into a pole at the corner. Saw Donell. Here's your meds."

"Donell?"

"He's chatting up the new girl behind the counter."

"You're just being mean."

Monique cast her eyes down, "Donell... is a player," then turned around and left.

Sandra popped one pill, drank some water, tried to calm herself as the bitterness dissolved on her tongue.

Donell came through the door smiling.

"Better?"

"Much," she said, looking straight through him at the light streaming in.

Blue Tower [177.180] (299 words) Aug 9, 20.

The shapeshifter spoke:

Everything was beautiful. I was beautiful. We even cleansed our memories to make them beautiful. Every morning was sunshine and unicorns if that's what we chose.

I was bored. I didn't want memory-managers taking away the slightest pain. My heart wanted to feel it all.

My associates thought I was silly to be locked into reality.

Once I sat with a distantly related sister (she was centuries older than me) and watched moonbeams caress moonflowers on the Blue Tower. It looked lovely until a rogue cloud passed and lightning struck leaving an ugly black scar. My sister just smiled and said, "Now it has character".

It's my fondest memory.

After that I just changed forms willy-nilly. I became a lost 'flamingo' on frozen Pink Lake until I couldn't feel my feet and decided a 'penguin' would be preferable. But I still feel my toes tingle when they get cold. I also became a rock at the edge of a lava lake just to bask in scorching heat.

"On the Ice World?"

By day, I looked like a stranded merchant trying to get away like so many others. When there was a party I was very ... popular. I shifted into whatever my fly-by clients wanted to taste that night. In return I tasted it all. I felt alive.

"But now?"

Now I need to go home. My world is beautiful. My people are beautiful. And because they have numbed themselves to any pain, shunned any discord, put on rose-tinted glasses (as you would say) they can't even see themselves.

They have made a paradise and lost much in return.

"What will you do?"

I will share my joys and show them my scars. Like the Blue Tower taught me, I will teach them that character matters more.

nnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

A River of Thirst [177.171] (556 words) July 18, 20

Along the bank, under the cottonwood, head above water, the beaver languidly swims at dusk. There's no hurry.
Winter seems so far away as cotton holds sway in the light breeze and swallows dip and dance with the raising midges.

There's always a fresh branch to chew on.

Ah ... but the heat. The river is losing its grip on the bank and the heron stalks the shallows. The osprey overhead has a clear view of fish trying to hide. Along the shore leaves and debris swirl in the eddies.

And there sitting on some driftwood surrounded by stones and sand sits Jarom.

Jarom decides it is time for dinner. He calls out to Noah and Hiram. They don't answer.

He only has some hardtack. The water might be okay. It's not totally clear, that would be a sure sign of arsenic, and the beaver seems healthy. He doesn't like to eat beaver. And he can't gnaw cottonwood.

He dips his tin cup in the river and drinks. Dips again and lets it settle. Time enough for tea later. He looks for the tea and finds it in a small pocket wrapped up and sealed in a thin tin.

The others would worry whether he had performed the right rituals when he made his tea. He didn't care. They weren't here.

But he wished they were.

Every since he had been thrown out of his home they had been there for him. They called their encampment the Town of Lost Boys.

Jarom moves into the dying glow of the sunset. He lights a small fire and hangs a lantern over the bank in hopes the midges are attracted to it and then ... maybe a fish ... if he were lucky.

He lights another small fire in the sand surrounded by stones. It's dry and any fire could burn him out of his home of dry sticks. He would like some tea with his hardtack.

He breaks it into pieces and sets them by the fire where he can see them.

He looks up. The moon will shine later tonight if the clouds part.

He grabs a stick and makes symbols in the sand to summon the moon.

The heat stifles any urge to sing as the breeze dies with the light.

He knows the songs, the melodies, the harmonies. He knew them all by age 8. They all did. Even those who didn't believe in them. Even those who had been found unworthy and kicked out.

The elders believe that there is only so much of anything to go around and never enough. The Anointed Ones do not share with the unworthy.

But the Lost Boys share ... sometimes.

He wishes his friends were here but the water is boiling and it's time for tea.

A thrashing in the river is a welcome sound. A fish has been caught in his snare. It's little but two bites are better than none. He starts the ritual of taking-a-life. He boils another cup of water to cook the fish. He's hungry.

He spends the night alone, tossing and turning in his sweat, wakes up at the first glow of dawn. No hardtack. No fish. Enough tea for one cup. He heads back to town before the heat rises as the beaver swims by. He hopes Noah and Hiram will greet him.

mmmmmmmmmm

Half a loaf of bread [177.120] (289 words) July 5, 20.

When I woke up Seraph sat there with half a loaf of bread. A crow was enjoying the rest.

I went to steal it.

Seraph softly said, "no". And gave me her half.

"We all need to eat."

She paused as winds howled through a tree that shook its leaves and littered the ground.

"He hasn't been here for a week. I was worried. He brings me news of the outside world, while that maple blocks summer's blistering sun yet lets it enter come winter. I am grateful to them both."

Seraph showed me trinkets, shiny things the crow had brought to pay for crumbs. One captured my eye. A key.

"Yes, but it fits nothing here. If my friend is trying to give me hope, I thank him."

I chewed in silence. Seraph laughed. "Slow down! We have plenty of time before they feed us again."

"When is that?"

"Who knows. I no longer care. Once they gave me a lump of coal. Another time some charcoal."

I looked at drawings on the walls.

"Yours?"

"Some are. Some are the thoughts of others."

"How long have you been here?"

"So many seasons I can't recall. I was brought here one autumn. I somehow survived that winter."

The storm outside quickened.

"I'd open the window but it's far too windy. On calm mornings I hear birdsong. Some nights a nightingale. I wish I still had wings."

Looking out I saw a hill town. I yearned to escape. I spent one week there. They fed us three times. And the crow came back twice.

I left her with everything I had. A shawl, a comb, a couple stones. She lit up with glee and gave me this key to remember.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Will you save me this dance? [177.86] (300w) June 8, 20

Sara sashayed, singing "will you save me this dance for the rest of my life?"

Kyle wept.

He turned to Mira. "Can't she just drive a nail through my heart?"

"Apparently she just did."

Mira took Kyle into her arms. It was going to be a long voyage from Sirius. Not everyone would make it to their new home and by that time all those they had left behind would be dust blowing in the wind.

"Can we take a walk," she whispered.

They went through the garden. Rainbow lollipop trees were drooping like they did every year. They'd look like that for another month then all of a sudden they'd pop up straight and start to bloom in multicolored hues. Mira avoided their sickening sweet fragrance. Sara loved it.

"Like a fly to garbage," she said.

"What?"

"Oh, sorry, just thinking out-loud. I know some will miss this place. I won't."

"Can I ask a personal question?"

"... sure ..."

"Why did you refuse Prince Li?"

"That pompous piece of shit? Gimme a break. He wanted my ass. Everyone does. But I'm not cheap. All his rubies couldn't entice me to share his bed."

"He offered a crown."

"I want to leave Kyle. I don't want to stay here and play among quartz-crystal-statues and trimmed have-a-berry bushes. I want to see a real place with real people."

"A place like where you're going?"

"Yes, I don't mind dirt, hard work and good people."

"And me?"

"You cry a lot but at least they're honest tears. Look, Kyle, Sara wants to stay here because this is all she knows. She's afraid to be afraid."

"... I know ... that's why I booked my trip an hour ago."

"... so ... you're going ... what if we hook up and have a kid? What'll we name him?"

"Adam."

Sunshine [82] (296 words) May 31, 20.

Billie Jo sits there in her sunshiny yellow T shirt while rain pings the panes.

It's springtime in Montana.

She tells me she wants a burger, might go out to get one, even put shoes on her scabby bare-feet.

She slowly heals from months of illness.

To have more than a 5 minute conversation one must travel to her world. No one is sure whether that's on this planet. Today, I can't linger as a pot on the stove needs my attention. Sometimes we chat for longer. Other-times she barely says a word. It's been this way for years.

The store beckons from a block away. Will Billie Jo venture out? Or wait until a meal is delivered to her door tomorrow.

No sound comes from her tiny room. Not even a peep. No smells of cooking. I eat my meal of pork and rhubarb over rice, light some incense.

I live next door. I worry when she doesn't look right, worry whether she has any food to eat. The owners are angels and check in on her when they know things aren't quite right or when no one has seen her for days. I'm not worried today. She looks and sounds fine.

I don't question her right to live here, to live on her own, to somehow cope with a world I don't share. Many don't seem to share mine. We're alike in that way.

Now I get up and go past her empty seat by the window. The yellow globe has finally peeked out to cast shadows on warm green hills, flicker off trembling poplar leaves, sparkle on Brennan's Wave where kayaks brave rapids.

But earlier today Billie Jo sat there, gazing out the window, coffee cup in hand, wearing her own sunshine, smiling.

Let sleeping dogs lie [177.67] (299 words) May 5, 20.

Pooch was grey-whiskered and Fluffy thought she was a dog. They slept curled up together.

I looked at the two. "Let sleeping dogs lie," was all I said.

Did Sheila know what I meant?

The tunnel of light I had seen after my 'accident' had lead to nowhere. I still resented having to come back, angry at Sheila for bringing me back. It was long past time to let go.

Oh to fly! everyone shouts in glee. I had. The sudden stop had left me broken.

The white lies I told her had to stop.

"I can't. It doesn't function." I'd told her how-many-times? But it wasn't true. I stopped her hands from wandering.

"I don't want to make love to you."

"I know."

"I'm angry that you wouldn't let me die."

Sheila answered softly. "I know." A salty runnel of tears etched her mascara.

I shouted loud enough to wake up Pooch, "THEN WHY!"

Pooch whimpered and Fluffy uncurled and came over to rub against Sheila. We four sat there in silence.The open window let in the music of spring. A neighbor mowing. Another washing a car. A child screaming all holy-hell.

"I wanted you to face the truth."

"What truth," I grimaced.

"Most of you died that day. I could only bring a small piece back."

"Why did you bother?"

"We all live in denial."

"Of what?"

"You wanted to go long before your 'flight'. I wanted you to stay."

The ice-cream truck went by singing it's ding-ding-ding. Sheila and Fluffy played with a string. Me and Pooch watched as a fly buzzed around us, landing on my nose.

"You won."

"No, I lost. I can't make you want me no matter how much I try." Sheila winced. "I'm still a loser."

Then I began to cry.

© Copyright 2020 Kåre Enga in Montana 🇺🇦

The Pink Lady [177.66] (299 words) May 2, 20

Valerie banged on a drum and shouted, "I'm going to be a star in a rock band some day."

Marcus clapped. It was good to see her so enthusiastic. She made everyone smile, even with a broom stick and a bucket. She did have rhythm.

Everyone set in a circle. Some moved to the beat. Some sang. Lucy got up to dance to her own inner song. A few just blinked their eyes ... a good sign of a very good day.

Valerie had a way of brightening everyone's day. They called her The Pink Lady. It was the only color she wore.

Try to get her to wear something else?

Fools were born every day!

Marcus laughed at that thought.

"What you laughing about," Lucy asked ... in a moment of lucidity.

"The color pink," he answered, but Lucy was already twirling to a new beat. As Valerie always said, "Got to mix it up."

Drumming was her life-vein.

When some complained about the racket, Marcus just handed them ear-plugs. When Valerie wanted to perform there was no stopping her.

The drumming stopped and then he heard sobbing. Her stick had broken. Marcus went to get another but according to Valerie the fun was over. Until next time.

Marcus volunteered as often as he could. Aides were often worn out and when someone got ill? Everyone got ill. But today was a good day. A very good day.

He went to wheel Valerie "home". "Why do you bother?" she asked every time.

Marcus smiled but said nothing. Valerie had been his fiancee until that day ...

The sky was aglow, an uncommon shade of pink. Valerie had been distracted, drove smack into a tree.

Once she had been a rock-star, now she was a star of the nursing-home, still banging away.

© Copyright 2020 Kåre Enga in Montana 🇺🇦

Ascent of Seth [177.55] (285 words) April, 28, 20.

A merman grows legs. A prince hates his princess ... and begs to turn back into a frog.

I'm not like that.

I don't seem to change.

I can only wash away the dirt that sullies me; chisel in hand, remove hard stone to reveal the softness hidden somewhere inside me.

My name is legion, legend, myth. Call me Casanova, if you please. My name is Seth.

Every morning I gaze in wonder at the bright light flickering over the surface of my lover-of-the-night's cooling corpse.

I wish. I wish they weren't sobralias, pale, fragile, fragrant flowers-of-one-day.

And I wish I could change, but I can't.

I dispose of the empty husks before breakfast. I no longer remember how many nor their names.

Then I take a shower, cold water trickling over my face, cleansing my body but not the spirit of what lurks in forbidden crevices.

I drink scalding coffee as I push against the urge to immerse myself in grief. I slowly butter my toast. After a night of feasting I'm seldom hungry.

Yet, I do have a conscience, perhaps small, perhaps lacking in some respects. For months I lock my doors so no one can find me. But they always do, like moths to a candle.

If they only knew how bright they burn in my flame.

If I could control this slow ascent from deep depression that becomes a longing, a mania of blood-lust, a night's explosive release, maybe then I could avoid the morning after's deep regret.

If I could chisel away to my core, could I find the cure? Would anyone care? And would anything be left of Seth. Would I weep away like a candle, wash away like water.

© Copyright 2020 Kåre Enga in Montana 🇺🇦

Once in Melilla [177...] (297 words) Apr 8, 20.

Mussels gripped the old pier. The old sailor sat there watching. Neither moved.

There were no more trips. No more sailing. He'd come home to die.

But his granddaughter wouldn't let him. She wanted to hear tales of other lands, of fish that got away, of the time when a storm nearly tossed him off the ship. "A tale a day," she emboldened him as she boiled percebes*. He was just earning his keep.

He didn't bother mentioning his exploits in various ports. Once he nearly told her about Filipa. She'd scolded him for days. How dare he not tell her ... everything!

Tonight it would be the same. A meal with a small glass of port. And then the telling.

"Once upon a time..." No, not that. Never that. Belinha was no child; she was thirty. Imagine that. Filipa had been younger. And her brother Filipe younger still.

What a tangle that had been! He loved them both. They both loved him. When they figured that out ... oh the sparks.

"Once in upon a time in Melilla ... there was this foolish young man ... "

He went home, took off his raincoat and hung it on a peg. He heard two voices laughing in the kitchen. Someone was helping Belinha. Maybe he could wiggle his way out of telling a tale tonight.

He scooted the calico cat off their favorite chair. No good that would do him. She just jumped back up to curl in his lap. At least SHE didn't demand stories.

He nearly drifted off. Then Belinha strode in with an old man in a beard, "Felipe was telling me about the time you spent with his family 40 years ago in Melilla."

He gasped as he took one look into those eyes. The game was up.

* percebes = goose-neck barnacles.

Face on a stamp [177.17] (248 words) Apr 3, 20.

I no longer remember what you wrote in the letter. It was your face on the stamp that shocked me.

Cool, debonair, laughing.

That's not the way I remembered you. The hours of watching you get drunk; the hours of looking after you while you got un-drunk. The days wasted.

You even needed help with your buttons after you peed. I remember that. And trying to get you in and out of bed without wrenching my back.

No apology could possibly make up for the time I spent with you. No letter could make it all right.

What did you write?

But here was your face staring at me. As if I was suppose to caress it, as if it was supposed to make me smile. As if I should be happy that you somehow straightened out your life ... without me. The 'without me' part I got over long ago. Life got much better after you dumped me. It was a Tuesday, wasn't it? I should've been wiser and dumped you first long before.

I never realized how fresh a place could smell without spilled beer and pissed on clothes. How much time I'd suddenly have for myself.

It was post marked Chicago. The envelope was standard, white. You never had good hand writing. My name was typed. There was a return address, somewhere in Indiana.

Ah ... now I remember ... I dropped it in the toilet, then sent it back unopened after I let it dry, 'address unknown'.