LIVE – R001

“And the attitude of faith is the very opposite of clinging to belief, of holding on.”

Alan Wilson Watts, Writer 1915 – 1973

“Vitor,” stated Angela, “Water, cold water, you are thirsty. Water is inside, I’ll bring here to the courtyard of marble, water for you.”

“Look! The sun is taller now. Smell the sea, iodine iron copper. Listen to the fat swells how they rumble roll and fold. Can you feel the thunder smoothly deep inside where the plants and fishes live and eat?”

That word. Inside.

Vitor stopped his breath. His body was large densely packed and fit. It felt no different to deny, than to allow passage of salty moist sea air within his boundaries. If it was to the sea he must cast himself. No Angela… Vitor would remain eternally beneath the olive swirls breaking into iron and gold triangles, dissipating. Angela shall stay above.

He would not cast Angela. She must breathe frequently. Small short bursts puffs of shining white mist. Was she seriously ill, he wondered? He began panicking.

“Vitor, stop the bees.” That seemed to be the problem with not taking in air. The bees within Vitor must be small and fragile like Angela outside in the courtyard of pure white. The bees, screaming, could not contain air enough to last. Petitioning pitifully. Gasping desperately.

A soft touch like a butterfly on his thigh. A pale hand, diminutive, knuckles and bones not aligned for strength to bend snap crush. Vitor studied their notable inefficiencies and concluded they were definitely not his hands.

Angela’s hands?

If Angela annoyed goaded challenged, forced the snap to happen; put her in the deep olive green with plants and animals writhing beneath, he would begin with those delicately pale fingers. An easy task!

“Vitor the bees will go away… Take in some air, silly.”

He panned slowly, indifferently like the sun up high moving to the west. There was no worry or hurry to act impetuously. Then…

Tiny Angela was seated next to Vitor on the bench of bright metal dark wood. Irises of silver gray green blue. Black pupils drawing pulling tugging.

An act of aggression! He jumped a mile, shattering the sky! Crashing back down like drums of steel crushed clanging. Must snap… Cast into sea… Now what… He knew!

“Angela! Lemon Cookie. Drink Cold Water. Thirsty Inside. Angela!”

“Fast Inside. Bend Snap Crush Cast In Sea. Run Inside!”

 The small alabaster doll-replica called Angela charged giggling toward the large blue-green slider doors meeting shut. Pushed one, than the other. Hard. Bang! The doors pocketed into the east wall of the cliff house. Vitor vibrated.

Vitor studied her energy and curiously effective motions. She was not sick at all!

Angela pinched his large brown paw hard with two doll-hands. Vitor was dragged like driftwood. Inside… “Sit, big dummy. Scaredy cat!”

A tall glass, gleaming, spotless. A plastic bottle with a Polar Bear. Polar Bear Seltzer. She poured the clear fluid. It hissed like angry snakes. Vitor’s eyes expanded. “Drink!”

Vitor chugged half of it down. Colder than winter winds. Gagged. Water dual jets streaming out his nose. Small hand flashing white towel wiping. Tiny blackbird laughter. “My Vitor, silly goose Vitor!”

Vitor chugged and jetted once more. Hilarity. “Angela, lemon cookie…”



About Richard E & Mary L Marion

Independent Writers
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