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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" "At three" "Wheat penny" 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)" "When is it proper to tell someone you love them?" "Footprints in the snow, in memory of Nyia Page" "James Doohan, Scotty. Ombra mai fu. Eutin Guitar Orchestra" FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
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 58.007 |
| 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) 58.006 |
| "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 (อาทิตย์1). 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 (อนงค์2)? 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 |
| Based on this: https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/CrapsackWorld 4th entry for the June '22 edition of
เครปแซ็ก (Crapsack) "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 (อาทิตย์3). 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 (อนงค์4)? 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. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.35] (21.juni.2022) ANALYSIS "A Crapsack World is a horrible setting where the jaded notion of "anything that can go wrong will go horribly, horribly wrong" almost always applies..." "If a Sugar Bowl (usually the antithesis of this trope) turns out to be one of these under the surface, then you have yourself a Crapsaccharine World. If the people who live in the Crapsack World don't realise or pretend it isn't a horrible place to be in, it is a False Utopia." Bozeman is wealthy. The beautiful people have bought out the Dutch ranchers to own their own ranchette, complete with a horse-for-show, within driving distance of a ski-slope. Bozeman is more crapsaccharine and a false utopia as I doubt folks see/admit the underbelly any more than here in Missoula. Hard to depict a place in 300 words but 'skier breaks his leg', 'everyone's favorite whore grows old', 'can't afford rent' (that's non-fiction here in Montana) ... describes a mid-life crisis in Purgatory not Paradise. Plus Arthit is Thai. Most Thais have a sunny disposition and many ski-bunnies do too... until the money runs out. At least most Thais have strong family support. Americans? Maybe; but, many depend on bank accounts not family. Perhaps I'm the one that's jaded? Yeah... I can live with that. I recognize the underbelly everywhere I go. Poverty, homelessness and being traumatized and marginalized will do that. When I do get to Thailand I will see the smiles, but I'll also look beyond them. Montana? I'm so over and done with you. ~550 words |
| "If I wanted you fired... ..." Brenda Schrott stood there by my cubicle, drink in hand, twirling a pencil in the other. "We need to talk." Bag-of-snot marched. I quietly followed, slinking past those other stalls, averting my eyes, becoming invisible... to absolutely... no one. At her majesty's desk she motioned for me to sit in the leather chair, the one reserved for dignitaries and executions. I stared at her collection of shrunken heads. "What's that?" She pointed at a button sitting daintily on a lace doily. Emo? Much. But, I didn't dare say that. "A button." "Whose button?" I stared at it intently. "It won't bite you." I could feel the acid dripping from her fangs. "Pick it up." It was small, black, 4 holes, nondescript, could have been anyone's... if I didn't know better. "Lost a button, have you?" My blinking eyes gave me away. "Well, take it and sew it back on. You look goofy with your chest hair showing. It's not professional." I gulped as she turned to reach for her phone, a cue for me to slip away as fast as I could. "Thank you. May I go?" She smiled, a very thin line of a smile, and half nodded. "But next time don't sneak into the broom closet. I've watched the security video a few times..." I blushed. "...hoping to learn something new." I felt my heart skipping. "By the look on you-know-who's face I suspect you were good, very good. I've made a note in your file just in case we have a client in need of your skills." I stood frozen. "We'll keep in touch. Now go." I don't remember how I got back to my desk. |
| Based on this: https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TrespassingToTalk 3rd entry for the June '22 edition of
For love of a button "If I wanted you fired... ..." Brenda Schrott stood there by my cubicle, drink in hand, twirling a pencil in the other. "We need to talk." Bag-of-snot marched. I quietly followed, slinking past those other stalls, averting my eyes, becoming invisible... to absolutely... no one. At her majesty's desk she motioned for me to sit in the leather chair, the one reserved for dignitaries and executions. I stared at her collection of shrunken heads. "What's that?" She pointed at a button sitting daintily on a lace doily. Emo? Much. But, I didn't dare say that. "A button." "Whose button?" I stared at it intently. "It won't bite you." I could feel the acid dripping from her fangs. "Pick it up." It was small, black, 4 holes, nondescript, could have been anyone's... if I didn't know better. "Lost a button, have you?" My blinking eyes gave me away. "Well, take it and sew it back on. You look goofy with your chest hair showing. It's not professional." I gulped as she turned to reach for her phone, a cue for me to slip away as fast as I could. "Thank you. May I go?" She smiled, a very thin line of a smile, and half nodded. "But next time don't sneak into the broom closet. I've watched the security video a few times..." I blushed. "...hoping to learn something new." I felt my heart skipping. "By the look on you-know-who's face I suspect you were good, very good. I've made a note in your file just in case we have a client in need of your skills." I stood frozen. "We'll keep in touch. Now go." I don't remember how I got back to my desk. © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.34] (21.juni.2022) ANALYSIS The unexpected face at the door, in the alley, at the soda fountain counter... it need not be sinister but the expectation should be unnerving whether or not this is obvious. But the reader should feel the tension. In this case just a boss/serf interaction from the first person point-of-view of a fish in front of an eagle. We know who's boss and how she's perceived. "Bag-of-snot" says it all. How did I come up with this? I channeled my own fear of being summoned by a demon boss. Her name? Doesn't matter. I have no clue why Brenda came to mind. I grew up with Schrotts (twins: Carol and Carl, nice folks) and once I mangled the name Brenda Schrott? The rest rests slithering on the page. I mention this because some folks think writing is magic... it is... but it's like kitchen magic. We who wish to eat know how to make something from nothing. Deadlines: write or perish. I played with the sinister opening to get the reader's attention. Not hard to set up! But... not all demons are fire-breathing dragons. Some are more treacherous in other ways!  In this case the boss 'trespasses' on the privacy of an underling... not unheard of in the real workplace. ~500 words. 57.999 |
| Based on this: https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/AndImTheQueenOfSheba 2nd entry for the June '22 edition of
Once on Lois Lane "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." © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.33] (19.juni.2022) ANALYSIS And I'm the Prince of Poetry and Prose!  Perhaps sarcasm... perhaps truth. Perhaps both are true! This snippet feels more like an intro or 'first chapter' than a flash fiction, but I use what I have at my disposal. The trope gave me focus... as did the three word prompt: egg, bread, ring. I was desperate okay? In this case I amused myself with the names Samwise/Samantha and hobbits (alluded to but not mentioned) and common mythical beings (dragons, dragonets a la Hogwarts. Hagrid would understand). Frankie? No idea where that came from. The ambiguity allows various paths for the story to continue. Who is Samantha? What's special about Frankie (reincarnation of Qinglong, the Azure Dragon of the East?). Who's that dragon-at-the-door? (next chapter: Let me introduce myself...). Could be folk-horror-tale or a nice cozy-mystery... dunno... Do I use this trope IRL? When I say "I'm a poet" is that just my overestimation of myself? Or just an observation. I write = writer. I write poetry = poet. As for the power or pain of secrets (shared or not) I have a few and can speak to that as well. ~490 words |
2nd entry for
"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." © Copyright 2022 Kåre Enga [179.33] (19.juni.2022) ANALYSIS https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/AndImTheQueenOfSheba Perhaps sarcasm... perhaps truth. Perhaps both are true! This snippet feels more like an intro or 'first chapter' than a flash fiction, but I use what I have at my disposal. And I'm the Prince of Poets and Prose! The trope gave me focus... as did the three word prompt: egg, bread, ring. I was desperate okay? In this case I amused myself with the names Samwise/Samantha and hobbits (alluded to but not mentioned) and common mythical beings (dragons, dragonets a la Hogwarts. Hagrid would understand). Frankie? No idea where that came from. The ambiguity allows various paths for the story to continue. Who is Samantha? What's special about Frankie (reincarnation of Qinglong, the Azure Dragon of the East?). Who's that dragon-at-the-door? (next chapter: Let me introduce myself...). Could be folk-horror-tale or a nice cozy-mystery... dunno... Do I use this trope IRL? When I say "I'm a poet" is that just my overestimation of myself? Or just an observation. I write = writer. I write poetry = poet. As for the power or pain of secrets (shared or not) I have a few and can speak to that as well. |
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