Olaf’s Round 7 Challenge: Incorporate an Astral Projection (taken from Isis’ Story). Word limit: 600.
Read OLAF 6 here (see “Similar Posts” at the bottom of this post for any earlier entries)
He’d already gone out fishing for the day when Olga knocked on his front door, alone, early Sunday morning. She was convinced Ron had never received her Facebook message. Aside from the two of them becoming Facebook friends, there was no activity on his page since the day the account was opened.
She’d planned to call Ron first – he was the only Hearth in the phonebook – but after three aborted phone calls decided it would be easier to stop by. It hadn’t helped that the manager of Hagan Harbor Lodge, who had handed her the phone book, told her Ron was single and lived alone.
She was both disappointed and relieved he was out. She set on his doorstep the jug of spiced rum and wrote a brief note stating that, in case he hadn’t received her Facebook message, she was at Hagan Harbor Lodge with her husband and children and would love to see him. She paused and then wrote: “My husband knows. It’s o.k.” After another pause, she signed off, “Please come. With love, Olga.”
While she was writing the note on his doorstep, Ron was steaming along the cliffs south of Hagan’s Harbor, mulling over what to do about Olga. The sun was low in the east and the shadows of gulls gliding across the rising sun moved enormously across the cliff face, distorting upon the irregular rock.
For several years after Olga had moved out and returned to Finland, Ron would occasionally hike out to those cliffs at night. He would go when the moon was low and bright on the water. The clouds drifting slowly under the moon made the night eerie and imminent and profound. It was a good place to stand and be alone and think.
And it was a good place to not think. The stars were good for that. He would lie with his back on the cold granite and study the constellations and he forgot about himself and all his cares and concerns went out of him and into the stars and the stories of the constellations.
But sometimes, even under the stars, he could not forget himself. Sometimes he had too many thoughts and felt he could not manage them and nothing seemed worth doing except sorting them out. Fishing was good for that. And if he could not sort them out, at least he could unload them out to sea like a crate of junk metal.
But that was decades ago. Ron hadn’t sorted out or unburdened himself of anything when he returned to find on his doorstep a letter under a jug of spiced rum. Spiced? He wasn’t sure if that was a joke or bad memory. About the only thing spiced rum was good for was abstinence.
Ron read the letter two dozen times that night. “My husband knows. It’s o.k.” That line kept him up most of the night. By morning, he’d made up his mind by a simple process of elimination. If he went, anything could happen. If he didn’t go, he was only assured of more sleepless nights.
He bagged up all the tuna steaks in his freezer and headed to his truck. Five minutes later he was banging the knocker on Apt. 4, Hagan Harbor Lodge.
The door opened. There before him was the Olga he remembered. The same bobbed platinum blonde hair, the same wide set ice blue eyes, the same unflinching gaze. It was Annikki, Olga’s daughter.