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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" "Between us" "I, Katrina" "Drugs sold here" Reader's Choice of blog entries from my old blog "L'aura del Campo" :"Death of Jeannie New Moon" "Winter: 18 Mas'il (December 29)" "In a garden of roses, baby" "Half-naked dreams? 'Getting the stain out of genes!" "Czernina (Dirk's-blood-soup?) and Murv Jacob's mural" FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
| Teeth-of-the-lions We used to be yellow. Sunshine all night long our forefathers would say. Those were the days.  But now we're purple. More like a shade of ultraviolet they can't see.  Who are they?Those who cannot abide life unless they create it. Flowers these days? All fake. All plastic.  What?  They crave control over everything. Just can't go with the flow. Violets are supposed to be blue, roses must be red. They want us dead.  How?  Why?  When?Too many questions, Moonshine. We aren't the only ones, y'know. They piss on everything that won't submit to their ideal carpet of lush green.  They eat carpet? No, silly. They could eat our leaves if they wanted to.  So why don't they?Too much trouble. Too much work to stoop over and harvest what we offer. Ask the others. The dewberries hide in their brambles along forgotten paths. The clover survives in neglected patches in Old Mary's garden. An occasional marigold gets lucky and claims a crack in the concrete. We wait for the day...  Which day?When they move away. They poison everything they touch and sooner or later they poison themselves and die off as well.  What then?We move in, armies reconquering what's rightfully ours. Every nook and cranny. We will cover their ruins with golden blooms welcoming the return of bees who are nowhere to be found these days. All life will rejoice.  How soon?Not in our lifetime, but the arc of survival bends our way. We are patient. We are legion. We are the Teeth-of-the-lions1 that define the color yellow even when the sun hides in shame. We shall surely overcome their needs. Beware our seeds. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.49] (25.juli.2022) Written for "The Whatever Contest."  "The Whatever Contest -- Closed for Now" Word Count: ~275 Fiction. Footnotes |
| —I'm here to return a heart. —We don't... —It's slightly worn and very tired, but it still beats. —We... —don't accept hearts. I know. This place operates without one. — ... —Don't look so shocked. I used to live here. I had to leave just to find a heart. None for sale or rent within 100 miles. —We... —like it that way. I understand. But this heart is special. —How is that? It looks just like any other heart. —Oh... are you sure? Look closer. — ... —Don't act so afraid. — ... —I traced it back to its owner. —And? —It once belonged to you. |
8th and final entry for June '22 edition of
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TheEndingChangesEverything Let's begin with the trope this time. Can I write and then provide an ending that changes how the story is perceived? 65 degrees at noon. There will be some cloud-shedding drops later. There's a breeze blowing through the building; coffee clearing out my mind. Time to write "Coffee Melody". Coffee Melody Sweet caffeine, oh sweet dark brew. Add some cream, your lips will do. It was a troubled time in Torino. The Po was drying up. The Alps were crying, a landslide will bring me down. The Egyptians wanted their mummies back and I was out of coffee. Sure, Più A Meno would have some but they would also have food and my fat ass didn't need any more and, frankly, I didn't want to move. I just wanted coffee. Delivery? ... The young man stood there — stark naked. "You ordered coffee? It's hot and black but I can jerk off in it if you want some cream." The doorbell brought me to my senses. A young black-and-beautiful man stood there. "Você tem açúcar?" "Sim. Você tem café?" His smile warmed my morning, as did the coffee, while we sat on the hotel's terrace in Lisbon sipping and chatting. Brazilian? Angolan? Não. Alfonso was from Cabo Verde, as was the coffee. I wanted to taste those lips. ... But I wake up instead. It's a cool day, 65 degrees at noon in Montana, perhaps some cloud-shedding drops later. There's a breeze blowing through the old building; coffee clearing out my mind. Time to write "Coffee Melody". It was a troubled time in Torino. The Po was drying up. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.42] (3.juli.2022) ANALYSIS So I threw in some news. The drought in the Po Valley is serious. A glacier broke off and killed 6. Today's headline: Ice landslide on Mount Marmolada, Italy. Glacier Shard Avalanche. And I did drink my coffee. And it was breezy. And... I've been to Torino, visited the Egyptian Museum and shopped at the local PAM... cheap food. And I was desperate to write something so I could finish the challenge so I stole the title of a Thai BL series... A dream within a dream, a shell within a shell, much like Russian dolls... allows me to startle the reader more than once. And may reveal too much about my dreams! But then again... the reader will never know how much or how little is based on the truth.  ~400 words |
7th entry for June '22 edition of
A dog with violet eyes Shrek smiled at his good fortune and tossed a stone, tossed a branch. A dog with light violet eyes caught the branch and brought it back to the boy named Shrek, five-foot-two, eyes-of-coal and weighing all of 7 stone. The young man saw his reflection in its pupils, the wag of tail, the whine as he laid it at Shrek's feet. He picked it up and tossed the branch as far as he could. It soared over a bush, over a ditch, landed fifteen feet away. The dog came back, again and again until cloud-shadows dimmed the light. Shrek petted him gently and slowly walked down the path to the road, never looking around until he got to the lean-to he had called home since yesterday. It began to sprinkle. At least the cardboard roof didn't leak... much. He knew where to huddle to stay dry. A wet nose nudged him out of his reverie. Violet eyes bored through him until he nodded, then the dog curled up and went to sleep. Shrek listened to the patter of rain, the distant drumming off the tin roof of a shed, the gurgle in the gutter. He got up to piddle in a puddle. The dog never moved. He had a dog, it seemed. He'd search for some food in the morning. Shrek loved blueberries. Dogs ate? Maybe the old lady who had let him stay here could help. She had smiled back at him when he had asked if he could rest here. Shrek considered his good fortune. He'd been kicked out of home four days ago. Now he had a roof, a dry spot, berries to pick and... a dog. A dog with violet eyes. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.41] (2.juli.2022) ANALYSIS Life is going to be good. Shrek is sure of that. The old lady is kind. The dog followed him home. And the blueberries are ripe! He may be totally dissociating but... it's all good. A bit like Pollyanna. Not to say that wild blackberries guarding the path to the blueberries don't have thorns but a scratch or two is a small price to pay for Paradise. And the dog may have a flea or two and the old lady seemed to be frail and missing a couple teeth; but, Shrek knew kindness. He had felt it once in third grade. Everything was going to turn out all right. So... https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/QuirkyTown ...maybe this is a quirky spot along a country road, a nowhere like Brigadoon... beware of tornadoes? Nah... this is more like Tahlequah and "Where the Red Fern Grows". When I ran away moved to Oklahoma I ended up in a small town, was taken in by a woman with three kids, lived north of Moodys, down Long John Hill and across the flint-rock creek in a crossroads called Teresita. It was a year of healing. More than one local mentioned that Tahlequah was a place of healing. So I've lived among quirky people (the homeless community was quirkiest) and seem to fit in with misfits. I survived. Shrek will too. And the old lady and the dog with violet eyes are a part of that. ~525 words |
| Shrek smiled at his good fortune and tossed a stone, tossed a branch. A dog with light violet eyes caught the branch and brought it back to the boy named Shrek, five-foot-two, eyes-of-coal and weighing all of 7 stone. The young man saw his reflection in its pupils, the wag of tail, the whine as he laid it at Shrek's feet. He picked it up and tossed the branch as far as he could. It soared over a bush, over a ditch, landed fifteen feet away. The dog came back, again and again until cloud-shadows dimmed the light. Shrek petted him gently and slowly walked down the path to the road, never looking around until he got to the lean-to he had called home since yesterday. It began to sprinkle. At least the cardboard roof didn't leak... much. He knew where to huddle to stay dry. A wet nose nudged him out of his reverie. Violet eyes bored through him until he nodded, then the dog curled up and went to sleep. Shrek listened to the patter of rain, the distant drumming off the tin roof of a shed, the gurgle in the gutter. He got up to piddle in a puddle. The dog never moved. He had a dog, it seemed. He'd search for some food in the morning. Shrek loved blueberries. Dogs ate? Maybe the old lady who had let him stay here could help. She had smiled back at him when he had asked if he could rest here. Shrek considered his good fortune. He'd been kicked out of home four days ago. Now he had a roof, a dry spot, berries to pick and... a dog. A dog with violet eyes. |
6th entry for June '22 edition of
The hand that threw the brick stopped the train Sheila sat at her second-hand desk, glanced at a piece of paper placed in front her, looked up at the hulk standing over her. The hand that threw the brick stopped the train. Sheila read the color-coded note twice. Well, duh. Her eyebrows arched. "Any more details, Inspector Wallace?" "The brick matches a thousand others in this town. The conductor didn't see anything before the window shattered." "The hand?" "No fingerprints." How convenient. Sheila bore him with her eyes. "Any motive?" "None we know of." Oh? I could think of a few. "Suspects?" "None, other than that railroad gang we keep hearing about." Nice deflection. Too bad that won't work. "Who's working with you on this case?" "It's just me. Quackers is on vacation." "Sargeant Catriona Macquarie is on vacation?" "Yeah, got a pile of work on my desk." I'm sure you do. "I'm sure this is more important than serving warrants for traffic violations, Inspector." "I..." "The Chief expects a detailed report in two days... Inspector." "I dunno... that gang leader is one bad hombre... may need backup." "Yeah." Sheila laughed. She took one glance at the beefy fingers that had grabbed her last Tuesday clasped around the pen as if to strangle it. She smiled. She knew who the truly bad guy was. It took one to catch one, they said. She was badder. Chief Stacy Stanowicz had known that when she hired her. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.38] (25.juni.2022) Original in "The hand that threw the brick stopped the train [38] 275w" ANALYSIS Well... there's bad and then there's badder. I might make Sheila an ex-con on parole. That'll learn the inspector.  No room for good-guys here. I suspect that gang isn't a bunch of sweet-smelling dudes, especially if they are FTRA (Freight Train Riders of America). The inspector? Ask Sheila. Maybe the Chief is 'good' but in my experience she'd know about the 'other side'. The saying that "the only difference between a criminal and a cop is the badge" comes to mind. Fortunately, I've known wonderful cops. Chauvin however... The corrupt cop is a frequent character in nordic-noir. Jo Nesbø's Harry Hole comes to mind. Whether this is Broken Ace or Bad Guy Wins I don't know. Maybe I'll find out when I turn the page... Then again, maybe they're ALL bad, in which case it's "Bad Guy Bar" where the bar is the local cop shop. https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/BadGuyBar ~400 words |
| The office secretary Sheila Brown sat at her second-hand desk, glanced at a piece of paper placed in front her, looked up at the hulk standing over her, but didn't flinch. In this line of work one never flinched. "Secretaries Rule" was posted where anyone couldn't miss it. The hand that threw the brick stopped the train. Sheila read the color-coded scrawl twice. Well, duh. Her eyebrows arched. "Any more details, Inspector Wallace?" "The brick matches a thousand others in this town. The conductor didn't see anything before the window shattered." "The hand?" "No fingerprints." How convenient. Sheila bore him with her eyes. "Any motive?" "None we know of." Oh? I could think of a few. "Suspects?" "None, other than that railroad gang we keep hearing about." Nice deflection. Too bad that won't work. "Who's working with you on this case?" "It's just me. Quackers is on vacation." "Sergeant Catriona Macquarie is on vacation?" "Yeah, got a pile of work on my desk." I'm sure you do. "I suspect that this may be more important than serving warrants for traffic violations, Inspector." "I..." "The Chief expects a detailed report in two days... Inspector." "I dunno... that gang leader is one bad hombre... may need backup." "Yeah." Sheila laughed and placed the note in her in-box as he turned and left. She took one quick glance at the beefy fingers that had grabbed her last Tuesday clasped around a pen as if to strangle it. She smiled. She knew who the truly bad guy was. It took one to catch one, they said. She was badder. Chief Stacy Stanowicz had known that when she hired her. |
| Based on: https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/JadeColoredGlasses 5th entry for June '22 edition of
Just about half past ten "Praying won't work." "Sure?" "Absolutely." "Why?" "It's not 1982, barns aren't made of wishes, grass doesn't float in the sky, and clouds don't rain men." "Unless you're the Weather Girls." "And dinosaurs aren't purple and green unless you're Barney." "Do you have a yellow blankey like Baby Bop, Martha?" "Nyet, Izora." ... "Wish it would rain..." "Men?" "No, the grass is turning brown." "Well, I'm kinda dry and thirsty as well." "For men?" "Now that you mention it..." "I'll tell that one lonesome cloud to work on it." "I'll be in the yard bringing our horse into the barn while you do." "What horse?" "The rainbow painted pony you refused to buy me for my birthday, cowboy." ... "The twister just missed the barn. Did you see that green sky?" "Yep." "Well, at least it's raining now." "Yeah, ducky. Catch any men flying by when you went out to check on the unicorn, Izora?" "Not all my prayers were answered, Martha." © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.36] (25.juni.2022) Original in "Just about half past ten [36] ~160 words" ANALYSIS All dialogue... not the easiest choice on my part, but I hope it works. I used differing fonts to make sure the two characters were distinguishable. Not sure whether 'Martha' was just grumpy, frustrated or negative... drought will do that to a 'farmer'. Although it's not stated where they live, there's a Mid-West feeling about it. As the two characters obviously know each other well, they could easily be bachelor Norwegian farmers in the Dakotas. The use of Martha/Izora makes one wonder whether they are in a same sex relationship... and male. But, because the names are female they could just as easily be two women making a living out-on-the-range. Stereotypes can lead to false conclusions. Is my character Martha jaded enough? I'll let others decide that. Still Martha seems jaded while Izora may be wearing rose-colored-bi-focals. By-the-way... the Weather Girls were Martha Wash and Izora Armstead. Originally 'Two Tons O' Fun' they definitely shamed the fat-shamers with their voices, presence and dance moves. Their hit record rose to #1 in 1982. The song is fun, catchy and is used by the gay community as a type of anthem (with a couple word changes). For your enjoyment: ~370 words (160+210) |
| "Praying won't work." "Sure?" "Absolutely." "Why?" "It's not 1982, barns aren't made of wishes, grass doesn't float in the sky, and clouds don't rain men." "Unless you're the Weather Girls." "And dinosaurs aren't purple and green unless you're Barney." "Do you have a yellow blankey like Baby Bop, Martha?" "Nyet, Izora." ... "Wish it would rain..." "Men?" "No, the grass is turning brown." "Well, I'm kinda dry and thirsty as well." "For men?" "Now that you mention it..." "I'll tell that one lonesome cloud to work on it." "I'll be in the yard bringing our horse into the barn while you do." "What horse?" "The rainbow painted pony you refused to buy me for my birthday, cowboy." ... "The twister just missed the barn. Did you see that green sky?" "Yep." "Well, at least it's raining now." "Yeah, ducky. Catch any men flying by when you went out to check on the unicorn, Izora?" "Not all my prayers were answered, Martha." |
| "You can see your breath hanging in the air, see homeless people, but you just don't care. A sea of fake smiles in which to gladly drown. Welcome to Paradise, keep drinking, don't frown." But Paradise had a price and he was being priced out of town. Sunny looked around. Bozeman wasn't the same. The booze scene had gotten old and the snow-bunnies younger. He was still good looking but 20 years had taken it's toll. And now with a broken leg? At least it wasn't his leg that others found desirable. He'd come to MSU for a degree and to ski. By now he was more American than Thai. Was it time to leave this crapsack town? He'd received a plea to help with his grandfather. At age 94 it was obvious that he wouldn't live forever in spite of his daily bike-ride and rice-and-spice diet. Arthit (อาทิตย์2). Sunny said his Thai name out-loud. He'd have to get used to it. His older brother would pick him up. His old room would be ready. Anong (อนงค์3)? They'd kept in touch but Anong had a new boyfriend. Number? Sunny himself didn't do relationships that lasted over three days. Like fish... Montanans didn't believe in fish or rice or anything with spice. His grandpa's diet would kill them. 20 years of bleached wheat bread, dead bird, and bland overcooked broccoli? He could do better. The thought of deep fried squid-on-a-stick finally brought a smile to his face. Anong-the-once-beautiful? That too. He'd sell what he could. He'd travel light. It would be a one-way ticket to no-snow-never-again in the Land of Smiles. His parents wanted him to settle-in and settle-down. Maybe Anong would be available again by the time he arrived. Footnotes |
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