A Snapshot in Time

The evening light filters through the leaves on the trees across the street, mottling the light dancing on the porch of the century old house in the rustbelt city in which Loki finds himself. He's been walking most of the day. He dropped into this "when" in a cemetery and yet, given how many "whens" he has bounced through in the span of only a few days, time is...elusive. He knows they will be coming for him before long. An escapee. There's little he can do without being watched and he knows that even now, eyes are searching for him and quite possibly have already found him. It's only a matter of time. He takes the steps up to the porch and sits for a moment on the end of a long bench- a church pew?- farthest from the door. There is music coming from inside the house. He is exhausted. He leans back on the bench. With little energy left for walking, he finally lets himself rest and, in doing so, he discovers just how uncomfortable he is. His senses flit between sensations.

It is his eyes he lets wander first, allowing them to observe where he sits. This house stands out from others along the block. It is the only one with an open porch, the only one someone could sit without looking entirely out of place. But his draw to this place, he thinks as he takes in his surroundings, comes more than just from the porch. The house is brightly painted, an emerald green against the more muted tones of every other home on the block. He laughs to himself, wondering if there is some quirk in his fate that has brought him to this door. But the more he looks, the more it seems as though it wasn't he that chose the house, but the house that chose him. It was the open porch that caught his eye from the street. Somehow, he hadn't taken notice of the colour. The trim around the windows is a bright butter yellow and, hidden along the edges of the sills, something glitters, letters in gold in a language he can't translate. Despite his extensive education and fascination with languages, this one eludes him as it glitters in the dancing evening light. And then there are the things hanging around the porch. Between each porch post, there are hanging plants, glittering strings of crystals, windchimes, and wooden painted figures – a boy on a swing, a twirling spiral made of dozens of small strips of dark wood, a carved cat twirling in the wind as a mouse bobs in front of it. But this is not the only place where things hang on the house. Against the front wall, a wooden rocking chair sways in the slight breeze, almost as if it is lightly rocking itself. Above it, an old wooden crate is fastened to the wall with a long fern in a pot spilling from the front. A peace flag surrounded by a swirling rainbow takes up most of the wall above the mailbox. Along the side wall, the one facing him, other decorations hang. A banner declares, "An injury to one is an injury to all," yellow lettering on a black ring that encircles a globe striped with latitude and longitude lines. On the other side of the window, a wooden board with a horizontal rainbow painted on it declares, "We Affirm Love," and beside it, another board, this one black, declares, "Black Lives Matter," in stark white lettering.

He looks beyond the porch. A battered wood fence frames the back yard, bright yellow enamel hubcaps turned into daisies hanging on the faded boards. The gate is so covered with a rainbow of license plates that he can't see if it is a solid gate or slat boards like the rest of the fence. And in the driveway is a car he has seen few other times in his journeys around this planet in as nice a condition as the olive green one gleaming behind him. A station wagon, the letters below it's rear window declaring 300 TD while the license plate is as antique as the car bearing it.

And then it is time to give attention to another sense. Smell. A car roars by and he coughs with the smell of exhaust, grateful for the breeze that sweeps through immediately after to clear it away. One of the house's windows is open and he smells something cooking. Something with some spice. He wonders if it is a curry. It reminds him of the scents he noticed while wandering through an immigrant neighbourhood early in his missions. It is a far better smell than the exhaust and whatever is being cooked in the house, it is making him realize just how hungry he is. His stomach growls, as if on cue.