She woke to the sound of the timber, loud and clear as if trumpted by the clock calculating the dear departed. It ran in obscurity, obsessively slow, solicitously mutating, taking a life of its own. She thought it was the town snake, snoozing its way through the mud; perhaps, the eerie dwarf across the street spreading a cheaper version of the salad dressing recipe to the residents but it wasn’t. Legend is, it wasn’t even a story but as clear as mama’s homemade grits: the old weasel, the security guard, drunk as skunk, snoring his hearts content as he slept.
©️Angela Aguiar


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