The Anchor in The Limitless Water

Good times don’t last neither bad times. Like drops of rain, it comes in buckets; sometimes sporadically and others, one continuous line of giving and misgivings. It feels like the end, the world closing in, grabbing you by the ankles, an earthquake of helplessness but it is not; just the universe waving at you. A slap in the face. A speed bump. A semicolon in your carefully catered uninterrupted life to say; hello I am here, can you see me?!
Indeed.
Dust off that dapper jacket, your gentleman stylish shoes and put it on. Walk up to the street and start trekking. Unmindful of the itinerary, brisk wind blowing at you, the acoustic sound of sand and gravel naked to the untrained ear whispers the pitch perfect noise companion; keep going it says, towards the ship in the far away land. Never fear but mutate. Never waver but stand firm. Never question but smile in gratitude. Make new adventure as twisted as imperfect lines it may come to be, rattled by uncollected evidence, never mind it; craft The stories. Be the anchor in the limitless water, a catalyst to the ship selling, to life as it is, for the living. Keep striving!

© Angela Aguiar

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Miss Katherine

Don’t call it a movie. A fib. A lie. Call it alive. Alive we are. Alive we will be, tomorrow is always here, a tale for the historians it is going to be. So, how you will tell the story to your grandchild, the script will dictate. Tomorrow!

Flicking through the three hundred sixty five pages New York Times bestseller, the title reads, when the world stopped, like a Broadway musical. An hand embroidered stitched letters on the back of a tablecloth.

It wasn’t me or you or they, it was us, all of us. It wasn’t black, white, brown, yellow, gray or pink, it was us. It wasn’t I speak Portuguese, you speak English, yo hablo Espanol, je parlais Francais, Io parlo Italiano, oh sorry no I don’t speak German; it was us. Yeah, who cares really?! It quivered. Who? What?! Us. The world. Stopped into complete oblivious, paralyzed from the waist down, naked like a prostitute on the corner street, baked like sweet potato left despondent on a dark alley by an unknown martian masquerading as Hercules.

The plot wasn’t without a hole but it was real. The town’s people were up and arms, mystified, ready to eat crow but came to their senses long enough to demand answers. Who in the name of the Holy Ghost could have committed such atrocity but it was too late. Hitting the break they couldn’t, the beast was already out driving like a drunken squirrel and stopping it, would have been as clever as trying to call a lifeline on who wants to be a millionaire. Huh?! Yup. A task. An episode. A job. Last I heard, whatever it was, took off line zippping down like Elon Musk spaceship leaving folks stranded on the banks of the river Jordan drum beating themselves to death. Who in the moon years would have the answer? But just like a flashlight, folks heard a cracked voice peeking through the bushes, turned around to see the town obnoxious chatty charley blabbing that miss Katherine might. She might, he said but why? “I don’t know, she might; cause she was the only one left boozenapping”, he replied.