Mirabelle

This is a short story I made up for no reason at all. Enjoy!

Her name is Mirabelle. She lives on the stony edges of the Sea of Cortez. She hates it. She did once love it. But now the putrid stink of dead mollusks assaults her nostrils. Worse yet… these same tainted mollusks—once so briny and chewy—eaten raw with lime juice—poisoned Pegasus, her sleek palomino. Every morning  at sunrise she leans out the window waiting for his wake-up whinny and flamenco hoof stomping. 

Empty wind the only call. 

Mirabelle dreads the silence. 

Janis Joplin’s alcohol-fueled screeching murdersthe silence. The scratched Big Brother and the Holding Company vinyl record wobbles around the turntable Mirabelle has cherished throughout her gypsy childhood. She dances around the rough hewn kitchen counter, slaps the hard wood surface percussively. Infused with  bitter cafe tinto from a chipped cup, Mirabelle howls with Janis until the song is finished. Completo.

Opening the screen door looking across the hazy sea she loves and hates. Another sea lion lies dead on the stony beach. The third this week. The tides are toxic. A deceiving aqua iridescence under the surface belies the truth of over-heated waters, sewage spills, factory run-offs.

She must leave. Pegasus did.

Where to? Northern light-fused forests are appealing. This place is only dried bone and broken shells rimmed in seaweed.

Farewell teasing sea lions who pulled her snorkel fins. Farewell sand eels swaying in the forests of sea grass. Farewell prehistoric hammerheads slowing gliding by——one eye on her. 

Hope lives somewhere. Greener? Farther?