Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Dinner is Prompt-ly at Eight - 19. Chapter 19 The Senses of the Heart
I hope you enjoy it. Valkyrie's is also published, so check it out.
The Senses of a Heart
By Cole Matthews
Moldy oranges
Phillip opened the fridge and peered inside. His mind was racing as he looked for a snack. The containers of leftovers, spaghetti, pot roast, and a bag of English muffins weren’t promising. They also threatened his new diet, which he was trying now to lose about twenty pounds and a couple of inches from his waist.
He crouched down, knees creaking, and slid open the fruit drawer, breathing deeply. A couple of wrinkled apples and a withered lemon cowered in the back corner. His nose caught a whiff of orange, but behind that sweet citrus smell was an almost dusty smell, with an acrid tang to it. He picked up the mandarin and saw the underside was blue-gray with the powdery mold. The odor was even stronger now, faintly medicinal and off-putting. Phillip coughed, and that turned into a choke, bringing tears to his eyes.
The tears, once started, didn’t stop. He felt his cheeks moisten as he struggled to stand. He opened up the lower cupboard door and popped the rotting orange into the garbage. The fruit splatted as it hit the bottom and the cloying smell of rotten fruit erupted from the container.
Phillip wiped his cheeks and sniffed.
Sound of a garden hose.
Phillip decided a snack probably wasn’t a good idea anyway. He toed his feet into his crocs and slipped on his windbreaker, green and slick. Taking a small blue denim cap from the nail by the back door, he walked down the steps, taking each one carefully. Next door, he heard the sound of a garden hose spraying. It was a faint, watery sound, promising life-sustaining hydration to plants.
He looked over at his neighbors, Sheila and Hillary’s place, a mother and daughter who had recently rented the cottage next door. The older woman was spraying the window boxes lining the side nearest his house. They were filled with purple and white petunias which hung down and swayed with the impact of the moisture. There were tall, proud spikes that stood up between the trailing waving vines. They seemed to guard the flowers from any impending threat.
Phillip noticed the woman was now watching him. He wiped his face with his hand and tried to smile back. It wasn’t easy, masking his sorrow and his pain. Sheila grinned though, making him believe his effort had been successful. The swishing water sounded happy and the plants appeared joyful, making his own despair that much more obvious to him.
Child with wings
The daughter, Hillary, came around the corner. She was carrying a small garden ornament, a kind of child with butterfly wings, welded and cut from painted sheet metal. Without taking note of Phillip, she gestured to her mother. Sheila pointed to the window box and nodded. Silently, the younger woman pushed the figure into the soil of the box, spear first. The placement was perfect because the gleaming black finish set off the white and purple flowers, and behind it, the stately dark green of the spike plant accented the effect. It was whimsical, yet lovely.
Like Phillip’s sister.
His sister had been the rock upon which their family coalesced. Since his mother died, at least twenty some years ago, his sister was the center of their holiday and summer gatherings. Lizzie would call their brothers and their kids and arrange the get-togethers. She was the glue and now she was gone.
She was the kind of fairy which bound them together. After her sudden heart attack and death this past spring, the family had drifted apart. Missing his birthday yesterday, had been the final reminder he was alone. Completely, and utterly. His brothers and their kids had fallen away, forgetting him. He was a relic, alone, abandoned, and now he realized it.
Sheila gestured for him to approach. He wiped his cheek again and stepped across the border into their yard. He felt something change as he crossed the imaginary line in the grass.
- 13
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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