Rising for the Dinner Bell

Nostalgia and Longing

rising for the dinner bell - Spectre of the Brocken - nostalgia

Today, they will need to scrape me off the bed of pine needles, stuff me, and hang me as a scarecrow. It’s not a novel experience. 

The scent of deceased pine lingers, a fusion of history and hope. A distant dinner bell chimes, setting the stage.

Nitrogen engages in a peculiar dance with my lawn beneath, growing with shame, interwoven with me and my forgotten love. 

The hammock taunts me, just out of reach. The picnic table hurls fastball images of our youth.

A mole gracefully swerves before a collision with my head. This is my territory, I mumble. The itch becomes unbearable. 

My incoherent bumbling finds solace in the vast dandelions, destined to reclaim this land back after my stuffed resurrection.

“Keep up, or lie in wait,” she whispers. 

“When was the last time you repented?” 

“Do you think you can recall?”, she probes, a hint of nostalgia in her voice. 

“There must have been a last time this happened,” she muses.

I reply, “Do it again, one last time, Please?”.

“Hmmm, Okay,” she concedes, “but only in your warm summer dreams will I put the apron on, you know,  – the dreams of real life, eons ago but just yesterday, ya know, the dreams when your in the old cabin, Pap’s garage, dad’s rusted tools, and the dandelion silhouette just now outlining your being.”

“None of that holds significance for me anymore Nanna, I have moved on. Please, Nanna! Just one more ring, and then I’ll quit! I’ll stop this nonsense and no longer fight. I will become a regular victim of society. I won’t crave or offer anymore. I’ll just exist.”

She floats above me and blows the past to the past with her single breath. 

“Nanna, please!” I plead.

“Alright then,” she relents, “but only if you promise to just be.”

“I promise! I swear!”

“Fingers-crossed?”, she teases.

“Ah-huh” I respond with a veracious nod.

And just like that, it rang one last time. 

Leaving its indelible mark.

Can you hear it?



Rising for the Dinner Bell: You can find this story in the collection “Spectre of the Brocken: Halo for the Observer.”

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Ran Kime Writer
Ran Kime, a writer, poet, musician and recluse from New Hampshire, crafts abstract stories, flash fiction & poetry that probe the psyche. His collections include “Spectre of the Brocken: Halo for the observer” and “Way Past Tipsy & Other Silent Cries for Help”.