Flash fiction: Enola

Enola was often alone, and oftentimes lonely.

Photograph by Debby Hudson

Enola was often alone, and oftentimes lonely. To pass the time and loneliness, she wrote letters to her one her only friend. She would write words of encouragement from heart to heart, as she would want to receive and read herself.

She wrote on parchment, as in the olden days. She took her time to make sure the ink-to-paper calligraphy was impeccable, readable, and felt like a cozy hug, like warm cocoa. She imagined peace reading the letter. The lettering could do that, or so she imagined.

She sealed the letter with red wax, waited for it to cool. The seal showed turtledoves nestled together. Turtledove rhymes with love, Enola sang-thought to herself, not thinking too much. Turtledoves could be good friends, she imagined. Like a pack of wolves, or a pod of dolphins.   

Carefully she placed the letter in a lavender envelope, wrote her address and that of the addressee, and applied the postage with a stamp of swans from 96—the ones that formed a heart together. She imagined a reunion of a union that felt like eternity, if only for a moment. 

*

Enola wasn’t always alone, or lonely. She was in love once, beloved. It was love that felt inseparable, like two souls fused into one. But, life and love couldn’t co-exist for too long. Love would want to endure, if not for life being so short-lived. Someone always had to go first.

She still had her imagination taking her to imaginings of birds, horses, and other such creatures being free, expressing love wildly. She still had her one her only friend she wrote letters to; the need felt especially burning today.

Albeit for a wistful moment she held the envelope between her palms. Some doings, however regular, could still make one feel unusual—to bare one’s soul is to be stripped off it. Snapping out of herself, she gingerly put the letter in her orange sacoche and exited the house.  

*

Outside the rain has since stopped, if not for much longer. Patches of sun peeked through honeycomb clouds, as Enola imagined the gappy floating droplets. The cobblestone now smelled earthy and shone with blotches of bistros and bakeries she passed by.

She could even see impressions of herself reflected as she looked down, her auburn hair falling to her waist. A game she still liked to play with herself—Enola squinted her blue eyes to only just see a silhouette shadowing ahead, colors of an autumn leaf blending into a nebulous shape.

Enola and her reflection splashed playfully against the hollows of the stony pavement, heading for the post office. Witnesses stopped and watched in surprise at an adult being so childlike, so carefree—some shaking their heads, others muffling their laughter. Some reminisced and smiled.

But Enola paid them no heed; it was as if she were elsewhere and elsewhen inside her head. She saw no one, only what she wanted to see. In those little whiles she felt cocooned in safety and hope, everything still ahead of her, still a possibility.  

*

At the post office Enola was surprised to find only one person working—someone new. Tag read: Wolf. Hair long, wavy, and brown. As he smiled in greeting, dimples donned his cheeks. “Hello, ma’am,” he said in a husky voice. “Let me know how I can help.”  

Nervously Enola approached Wolf’s station, revealing the envelope from her bag. Hastily she placed it on the counter, face down. With one hand spread out holding the letter fast, she locked eyes with him and stilled for a moment.

“Hi…Wolf,” she spoke solemnly, at last. “You must be new, so I’ll explain myself. This letter is to be shipped in two weeks. No sooner than that. Please repeat what I said so I know you understand.” Unexpected but amusing gravity transpired between them.  

Wolf squinted at Enola, bemused, eyes scintillating amber. “Uh…yes, ma’am. I’m to ship the letter in two weeks. No sooner.” As she understood he understood she nodded in thanks and turned to leave, relaxing the air of the small, quaint establishment.

Wolf made note of Enola’s curious request, but he’s seen, been, and done all kinds of strange things he stopped questioning anything. Picking up the letter, he scanned the stamp and the addresses. His eyes widened as he noticed something stranger. But, Enola was already gone.

*

When two-something weeks passed Enola received an envelope the color of lilacs from her one her only friend. She unsealed the wax holding it closed. Inside was a letter that felt velvety and rustled softly. She gently pressed it to her cheek before reading it.

As Enola read the letter memories came back to her—each lettering and word that meant to soften the heart, quiet the soul. She felt the sweetness albeit with sadness. And also unease—for years of writing to her one her only friend. Years of imaginings, reimaginings. All to avoid.  

She forgot to remember how emotions could come crashing down, even floods of delight. But grief submerged deeper. Thus she was reminded as if never before but always—all at once. She read until the end. The end felt unfamiliar—writing that seemed unruly yet lively—not hers.

It read:   

Enola, you don’t have to be alone.

Wolf

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StoryVerse

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