#fridayflash: Portal 7298

Portal 7298
by Louise Dragon



Portal 7298 remained buried at the base of Den Mountain for 276 years. A freak mudslide had buried it completely in the spring of 1733; and so the sentry slept. Heavy rains tormenting the Ozarks in the winter of 2009 washed away the last vestiges of earth, clay and debris. Once again, sentry felt the warmth of the sun on his planks. The sentry completed a quick check on its systems, before continuing to doze.


Corky Rolf hunched his shoulders trying to bury his neck and ears deeper into the worn old parka he’d pinched from Archer House. He wished he’d taken food and water before he’d run off. His mind wandered back a little . . .


“Corky, what’s this?” Anton Marlow had asked flipping a half pack of Marlboros across the bedspread.


Corky looked from Anton’s face to the cigarettes, his mind reaching for an excuse . . . any excuse. A lie . . . even a lie might work.


“Well . . .” Anton began, tapping on the cigarette pack.


Corky looked at his feet.


Anton sighed. “You know the rules. You’re too young to smoke. Spend the next four hours in your room reflecting on your actions. I’m also revoking your phone and television privileges for the weekend.” Anton picked up the pack and broke each of the remaining cigarettes into his palm. He left the room and Corky heard the whoosh of a toilet flush.


A frown deepened between Corky’s eyes while a hank of bedspread twisted between his fists. Ten minutes later he’d pinched a coat and a flashlight from the halfway house, and in thirty minutes he was half a mile away – working his way quickly through the forest.


They’ll be sorry, Corky’s mind worked overtime as he kicked at a heap of pinecones in his path. Lose my privileges? What efin privileges? – He struck a blow at a wide fir branch and it smacked back at his teary face. I’m never going back there . . . never.


By morning, however, Corky’s rumbling stomach and voracious thirst began to soften his resolve.


Curious humming crept into the pit of Corky’s empty stomach. He stopped and glanced around. Was he hearing it or feeling it? The sensation soothed his frazzled nerves and tortured stomach. He decided to move ahead a tad further.

As soon as the humming started . . . it dissipated and when Corky stumbled through the dense brush into a small clearing at the base of a mountain, he’d already lost all memory of the drone.


The small cabin, scrunched into the side of the mountain like a forgotten toy, belonged in a Rockwell painting. Old and weather beaten, it had a scrubbed look: clean and inviting. A stone well drew Corky’s attention and he quickly cranked up a bucket of beautifully clear water -- gulping with gusto. The water was cold and wet, but flat somehow: synthetic, not really thirst quenching – not as refreshing as he had expected.


Behind the well Corky spied a tangle of blackberry vines. As he picked handfuls of the plump fruit he wondered where the birds were and why they hadn’t beaten him to these tempting treats. The berries looked fat, juicy and enticing, but they were disappointingly sour and lifeless. They did quiet Corky’s rumbling stomach, however.

Why is it so quiet? Not a birdcall, or insect buzz?


Corky tapped on the cabin door and it silently swung inward giving him his first glimpse inside. The cabin -- only one room -- revealed no one was home. Inside the cabin was as neat as the outside . . . no cobwebs and no dust. Someone must be living here . . . maybe they had just stepped out to . . . to what? Shoot a deer for dinner?

Corky, leaving the door ajar, explored the interior of the small cabin. He saw a stone fireplace, small table with one chair, and a neatly made bunk. Corky circled that bunk, he’d had one long exhausting night and now that his thirst and hunger had abated, sleep was next on his list.


“Who’s been sleeping in my bed?” Corky jeered, then quickly clapped a berry stained hand to his mouth. His words sounded tinny . . . hollow.


“Hello . . .Hello.” his voice seemed cracked and strained -- unfamiliar.


What I wouldn’t give for a cigarette. Corky remembered the mashed up tobacco in Anton’s palm. Had it been only yesterday? The humming sensation from the clearing washed quickly over him then stopped suddenly.


Corky turned in a full circle – stopped and gaped at the mantle above the stone fireplace. A familiar red and white pack lay on the mantle with a plain pack of book matches. Glancing quickly at the open door, Corky covered the distance between bunk and mantle in two giant steps. Seconds later he lit up and inhaled expecting the normal burst of nicotine buzz and not getting it. He examined the cigarette – ordinary white trunk with a gold filter -- but it tasted like varnish and made his stomach turn. He stubbed it out in the fireplace, removed his muddy shoes and frayed jacket, and stretched out wearily on the soft bunk.


The sentry watched quietly until the boy was asleep. It’s shapeless yellow form floated out of the wall and hovered over the sleeping figure. Misty fronds swirled in and out of the vaporous creature. The ancient ones had left the sentry here, but he needed to renew this portal’s energy from time to time to continue. He would be so glad to finally step out of the clearing and into this colorful world. The portal now held a renewed sentry.


The boy who left the clearing that afternoon looked like Corky Rolf and walked like Corky Rolf, but was not Corky Rolf.


Corky Rolf’s essence churned without shape and screamed without sound from the eaves of Portal 7298.
end

#fridayflash: Portal 7298

#fridayflash: Ripple Creek Bar-B-Que

Ripple Creek Bar-B-Que

by
Louise Dragon


So, it’s two days before Memorial Day, Chuck and I have been cooped up at work for the week, the sun is out, the weather is beautiful, and nature is calling to us both.


We grab the dog plus a couple of cold ones and literally jump into Chuck’s beat-up Suburban. At the bottom of the driveway, Chuck says “Left or right?” I flip a coin to tails and shout, “left” with mounting excitement. This will take us north through the Ozarks and I’ve always loved the mountains.


Chuck and I chatter quietly about work, the scenery, and Lucky the dog who is perched precariously on the back seat. We’ve never figured out what she’s looking for, but she either watches through the windows intently or lies prone on her side -- sound asleep. Chuck never takes the same roads on these trips. What would be the point? New roads lead to new adventurers and Chuck, Lucky, and I are all about new adventures. So when we saw the sign proclaiming “Entering Slate Valley,” it garnered our interest immediately.


Slate Valley, it seems, has one of the few remaining slate quarries still in operation. The entire town seemed to be made of slate: slate benches, slate walkways, slate steps, slate fences, etc. We spent the morning exploring the quarry which was “Closed for the Holiday Weekend” according to the sign. We found a slate lined cave, a slate floored lake, and even a small slate adored park.


With rumbling stomachs we made our way to the center of town, still marveling at all of the unique uses this town had found for slate. I think we both saw the unusual sign at the same time, Chuck pointing with his left hand out of the driver’s side window, and me pointing with my right hand. Written in colored chalk on a huge piece of slate were the words “Ripple Creek Bar-B-Que.” I looked at Chuck and he looked back at me with a huge grin. Chuck and I are barbecue freaks. Chuck will travel hundreds of miles to check out new barbecue restaurants or to try a new barbecue sauce. This sign slathered icing on the cake of our fun and exciting day exploring in Slate Valley.


I could see that the building had once been someone’s three-story home, now painted a garish aqua color with stark white trim. The huge slate sign stood between two top-story windows. The eatery itself was on floor number two which was reached by traveling up a set of thick slate steps supported by wide beams. Floor number one lay half buried behind these steps, the high small windows boarded (slated) up. Prickly looking shrubs spiked the lawn in this area. A tired dirt driveway wound around to the back of the building.


The slate steps led up to an old-fashioned front porch, which held a quaint selection of rockers, swings, and deck chairs. An old man with a wiry gray beard down to his belt buckle sat seeding peppers into plastic tub on one of the porch swings.


“Howdy, folks,” he spoke with a phlegmy growl. “Hope you brought yer appetites,”


“Never leave home without ‘em.” Chuck replied as we headed inside.


A siren screamed in the background and the old man almost knocked me over getting to the other side of the porch.


“Lots of bad accidents on holiday weekends,” he murmured, spitting over the porch railing and narrowly missing the picnic tables below.


“Let’s eat inside,” I whispered to Chuck, who nodded readily.


The inside of the self-service restaurant was as quaint as the outside. The walls were dotted with small pieces of slate. Some slates in the kitchen area wore pricing and marketing blurbs. Those slabs in the dining area sported old-fashioned clichés like: “Make it or break it,” “Waste not, want not,” “The lesser of two evils,” and “Cooking with gas.”


Chuck and I bantered pleasantly with the blonde grandmotherly woman behind the counter. Chuck ordered ribs and I ordered a bar-b-qued pork sandwich -- we both asked for extra sauce and cream sodas to wash everything down.


As we sat at an old-fashioned slate topped table and polished off the succulent food, I tried to pump the old woman behind the counter about her sauce recipe and cuts of meat, but she slyly shook her head – a strange little smile playing over her little perch lips.


Later, stuffed to the gills, I inquired about a ladies room. The woman’s pleasant face furrowed into a frown and she glanced toward the front door as if expecting old Pa Kettle to come barging in. She hesitated another few seconds before ushering me through the fragrant kitchen to a small door marked “Privy” at the rear of the kitchen.


A tiny window in the washroom had been painted over, but I could make out movement in the backyard shadows below, so I scratched at a small area of the paint with my thumbnail and peered through to the back yard.


Big mistake!


An old fashioned ambulance squatted below the window and two burly large men bearing a striking resemblance to Ma & Pa Ripple Creek were wheeling a sheet covered gurney into the belly of the building below.


Fear turned my blood to ice water and I took several deep breaths before leaving the little bathroom and making my way across the kitchen and dining room toward Chuck.


The woman watched me closely with fear or malice in her eyes. It was hard for me to tell, I was in such a state of terror I wanted to run, but I pictured Chuck, myself, and Lucky being hacked up and barbequed in the pits under this house.


“Hey, Lizzy, I found the pipe for the barbeque pits,” Chuck said as I approached. He stood by a huge stainless-steel pipe, which ran from floor to ceiling through the dining room.


“Liz, what’s wrong?”


“A little too much delicious barbeque,” I said very loudly struggling to keep my voice steady. My stomach churned queasily at the thought of what we may have just eaten.


“We need to get out of here,” I whispered quickly in Chuck’s ear. “Act natural, she’s watching us.”


Safely in our car, Chuck turned to me. “What the hell?”


“Just get us out of here. Drive slow and act natural,” I said smiling and waving to Pa Kettle on the porch.


As we headed back home I told Chuck what I had seen in the bathroom. The color drained out of his face.


“What should we do?”


“Do? We do nothing! These people are all related around here. I’ll be damned if I want to end up some hillbilly’s dinner. We do nothing and we tell no one, deal?”


Chuck and I don’t explore the Ozark’s much any more. We don’t eat barbeque very much any more either, but we have talked about starting our own business – I’m sure there are other slate quarries around.

#fridayflash: Ripple Creek Bar-B-Que