Portland Short Story

a short story...

She woke Christmas morning, empty wine bottle in site. With one roll to her side, she split the blinds with her fingers to peer outside; a habit she picked up the day the snow began to fall. A smile crept upon her lips to see rain drops melting away the soft powder.

Bundled tightly, camera in hand, she ventured outside sloshing, crunching and slipping as she walked. She was alone on the street. This was, after all, Christmas morning. Bruised, swollen skies loomed above her and she wondered how the locals maintain their optimism.

As the thought swirled in her hollow mind a burst of vibrant purples caught her eye. Sitting lone in the ice was a berry vine, almost too beautiful against the gray slosh. She stared. Ice was melting off one berry cluster, droplet by droplet.

Snap. Snap. The camera sang. Echoing off the snow around her, the clicks were thunderous. Onwards.

























She approached a bridge where a freeway buzzed below. For a moment looking out towards the sky, melancholia collided with wonder. Sunlight broke. The first in weeks. Her eyes closed as she melted into each ray. The sky drew it's curtains and she walked home.