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 |   Enga mellom fjella: where from across the meadow, poems sing from mountains and molehills. |
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Enga mellom Fjella  Sentinel Marked as if you own me I bow before the Bitterroots and just like you my rocky soil, my withered grass lays prey to the empty sky. © Kåre Enga 2007 "Sentinel"   Reader's Choice of Poems: "'heart's home'" "Where grows the compost heap" "Waterlily" "La Bella Vita" "Starbeams on Tulsa" Reader's Choice of blog entries from my old blog "L'aura del Campo" :"Death of Jeannie New Moon" "Doing and don'ting. A scene in 2nd person." "When is it proper to tell someone you love them?" "Footprints in the snow, in memory of Nyia Page" "ENFP, what are you?" FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
| "I'm the new King of the Realm." "And I'm the heir to Bilbo Baggins." He eyed the ring dangling from her necklace. "Don't disappear!" Frankie was a pet. Nothing more. Samantha had been telling herself that for forty years. She'd bought him at the market under the bridge. A lovely jade shaped like an egg. She'd brought it home, placed it on the mantle. When it hatched she was gobsmacked... once the shock wore off. He was cute. He was tiny. He was... hungry. All she had was fresh baked bread. She had watched as he toasted it then gobbled it all down. Frankie woke her from her reverie. "Baking bread again?" He grinned at her. It was one of many private jokes. No one else knew she had a talking dragon. But then... few knew that she existed either. Folks talked about their weird never-seen neighbor as she stood there invisible. She knew all their secrets. She never tattled. Weird? Yes, weird and much more. What more does one need when your pet hoards scrap pieces of metal. "I like shiny things," he'd once told her. Samantha sold the scrap and returned the gold and silver when Frankie wasn't looking. Oh... he knew. It was their secret game. An old, very old, midget and her fledgling dragon living on Lois Lane... oh, the horror of it all! The truth was... they couldn't have handled the truth. A knock at her door startled her. She peered through a crack and saw no one, so she opened it. First she saw the toothy grin, then the whirling eyes. "I'm here to see the new King." She put on her ring and vanished. "I'm Here to See the New King." Faint smoke circled the nostrils. "And yes, I can still smell you." |
| Based on this: https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TheMountainsOfIllinois For June '22 edition of
Not in Kansas anymore She had pricked her thumb on a thorn, her knees now sore from scooting on the brick path. Tin Man offered to help her up. Dotty shook her head and held the drooping flowers in her clenched fist. Poppies. Bah. The pine-clad mountains loomed over her. The thick pall of twilight threatened overhead. The slick gumbo and gloom fit her mood like a glove. The ever-present warning sign, "Beware of Wolves" with its ever-dripping graffiti of red fangs seemed almost comforting... almost. We pray that we may evermore dwell in... I'm not in Kansas anymore. They were rehearsing for a centuries-old play that had been recently discovered. Flat plains? Whirling winds? Witches? What was a witch? "Witches are..." Stop reading my thoughts. Tin Man was her pet robot, ever-present, all-knowing, totally-annoying. "We could go see the Wizard if you like." And dumber than a straw-filled whatever-they-called it. "We can go see Whizz-Kid tomorrow." She shouted. "Today we have to rehearse our lines." Tin Man grinned and started to sing in a flute-like falsetto. "Follow the golden brick road." Dotty groaned. There's no place like Rome. There's no place like Rome. There's no place like Rome. Original in: "Not in Kansas anymore [179.30] 195 words " COMMENTARY: "Twilight meets the Wizard?" Maybe I should put it on an island with palm trees and "Beware of Jets" signs with graffiti of "Jaws"? Anyhoo... the basic "Mountains of Illinois" is a setting out-of-place... or in this case... also out-of-time with a couple poorly translated lines. Or are they? The mindless joy of silliness, the ectasy of short prose, the Antigone of de feet. And, unlike Robert, I don't even drink. Although... Robert's perfectly funny when he's sober. If this were presented in the future a time-traveler would have to stifle a guffaw or three. Same with the long-lamented, but unfortunately not forgotten play "Romeo eats Jules" by Swings-a-lance (another poor translation). Ah... how to do a trope and avoid a cliche. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.30ji] (13.juni.2022) |
| She had pricked her thumb on a thorn, her knees now sore from scooting on the brick path. Tin Man offered to help her up. Dotty shook her head and held the drooping flowers in her clenched fist. Poppies. Bah. The pine-clad mountains loomed over her. The thick pall of twilight threatened overhead. The slick gumbo and gloom fit her mood like a glove. The ever-present warning sign, "Beware of Wolves" with its ever-dripping graffiti of red fangs seemed almost comforting... almost. We pray that we may evermore dwell in... I'm not in Kansas anymore. They were rehearsing for a centuries-old play that had been recently discovered. Flat plains? Whirling winds? Witches? What was a witch? "Witches are..." Stop reading my thoughts. Tin Man was her pet robot, ever-present, all-knowing, totally-annoying. "We could go see the Wizard if you like." And dumber than a straw-filled whatever-they-called it. "We can go see Whizz-Kid tomorrow." She shouted. "Today we have to rehearse our lines." Tin Man grinned and started to sing in a flute-like falsetto. "Follow the golden brick road." Dotty groaned. There's no place like Rome. There's no place like Rome. There's no place like Rome. |
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