Fractal Realities: Through the Door

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

I have a screen door that doesn't open. The sliding glass door sit between the kitchen and the backyard patio, little more than a translucent wall. At the edge of the property is a chain link fence that separates my property from a steep grass-covered hill that, if one was interested in climbing, one would find leads up to the 505. People sometimes ask if it's scary having so many strangers pass by my house. I don't even recognize it most of the time. The thousands of trucks that rumble by have become little more than background noise. Speeding cars and sirens are annoying as a mildly persistent flies.

On days when it's been hot, I open the sliding glass door to let the breeze in and close it before bed or if I get cold. Today was such a day.

Finished in the kitchen, I began to close the sliding glass door when a hand, scarred and greasy, reached in and stopped it.

I couldn't help myself. I closed my eyes. A part of my brain wondered where the screen door was.

A voice like autumn said, "I've returned."

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