Synecdoche

“I have never met anyone as long-reaching as him, and I’m not talking about his height”, whispered the student, glancing upon the newfound teacher. Mr. McFellows, 47 years old, 30 in the past and 17 in the future, was able to reach his past – as well as everyone’s – with a slight reach from his mind. Having the most powerful mind of the century, muscles straight from the Greek Gods, and eyes that could be easily mistaken for arctic pools, he was unmatched. No one could believe it, and yet there he stood, calm as a broken sea, sturdy as a tree and welcoming as an apple pie. If you really dove into his eyes, some said, you could go crazy. The waves that built his line of reasoning, the foam that encompassed its structure and the breeze that made everything fall into place questioned any validity. He made you question everything you knew, would like to know or know at this very instant. He had a way of focusing all the different parts of something that never really led you to make a picture on your mind of the whole image. These lists of never ending parts kept floating on the sea and risked drowning daily. But his eyes, as cold, solid, lonely and forgotten as the south pole, his eyes were powerless to connect and to merge this images to cast a body of strength that would eventually coat all things known by men. His eyes, like arctic pools, were able to lie to no one.

**As opiniões expressas nesse post são de total responsabilidade do seu autor.**
**Texto por Fernanda Marques Granato

I didn’t know he was one of us

            As the wind approached the window, everything around the curtains trembled. The shiver could be felt by every pinch of salt that had ever inhabited these surroundings, and it had no intention of leaving.  It was long overdue. Fifty years, some papers acknowledged. Five years, some on-lookers guessed freely, unencumbered by the responsibility of supporting their claims with harvested data. It was no walk in the park, for sure. But the people needed answers, and somebody had to provide it for them, even if the investigation was lacking in the evidence-finding front. Either way, this mild shaking was foreshadowing feelings that later would sprout on the city, being felt later on a global scale. A cat emerged from behind the curtain, being caught mid-sleep by the quake. Even though he didn’t seem to mind, he was somewhat taken by the event, having started to walk in a slightly different pace, and backwards. All the same, no one noticed. Not even the furniture that had changed places considerably to make room for the entrancing madness that usually follows earthquakes. Not even the little girl that was hiding behind the open door, hoping to go unnoticed. Not even the vase with a flower, which was sweeping the floor with the water that had started to multiply by a hundred right after the quake. Not even the dog that, not having noticed the cat, the quake, the flood caused by the flower pot, the changing furniture or the girl, kept on chewing the same shoe string for decades. But the scientist, oh, the scientist, after glancing from the broken window, confirmed his suspicions and pretended to be a shadow, as so not to be blamed for the miserable outcome. I didn’t know he was one of us, and, like one of us, would prefer to go about unnoticed as hell broke loose outside. He must have been one of us, after all.


*Texto por Fernanda Marques Granato.
**As opiniões expressas nesse post são de total responsabilidade do seu autor.**