There's Got To Be A Morning After Life

A glowing sunrise overpowered early morning darkness when Skippy Brittle found himself rod in hand, standing in a parking lot where AM Diner patiently waited for nature’s light.

Slowly walking towards the entrance, the lost soul peered into the window, seeing a dedicated employee working the counter.

“What are you reading? Roddie Red,” Happily Augustina conversed serving smiling yolks.

“News From Above,” Roddie Red responded, “just like below, nothing about what I did last weekend.”

“Roddie Red, like I said when you first arrived at my peaceful pondering plot,” Augustina paused, “you were always on the top of the world looking down on creation.”

“Yeah,” Roddie Red agreed before referencing the message origins, “those who spoke words from the angelic city, always were in the papers.”

“They were, true, but if I remember correctly, you spent a lifetime showing kids, how to be the best,” Augustine noted when the bell rang, escorting a newcomer, searching for a fishing hole.

“Welcome,” Augustine announced, “the AM Diner is a wonderful spot to start the heavenly experience.”

“Well, thank you,” Skippy Brittle responded checking out the wake-up call establishment.

Putting another cream in his coffee Roddie Red exclaimed, “I see you are an angler,”

“Well, found the hobby after retirement,”

“And what did you do for a hundred years?” Augustine inquired checking the registration list.

Claiming, a simple life, Skippy Brittle’s obituary broadcasted all around the world, since his words, thoughts and actions impacted International audiences.

Finally, finding time to reflect upon his number one achievement that headlines reported, “Won the Blue And Red State Board Game, Handed Prestigious Title, President Skippy Brittle”.

“You know, Roddie Red, was President too,” Augustine commented fully aware of the powerful individual, “the President of the, TFA, Teenage Foxhunters Association.”

“I was fifteen,” Roddie Red clarified finishing his eggs, taking a moment to chuckle being very proud about the appointment, “you know I impressed Misty.”

“Misty? Was she another member?” Augustine craftly connected dots.

“No, Augustine,” Roddie Red corrected, “pony from Chincoteague.”

Seconds quickly elapsed, and Augustine chuckled, observing President Skippy Brittle take a seat.

“So, President Brittle, what can I get you?”

Reading the menu, Skippy Brittle acted surprised, “you have all these peanut dishes. Why?”

“You are in heaven, President Brittle,” Augustine told him, “and we love servicing the specially chosen.”

“You mean wholesome catches,” Roddie Red mentioned.

One month ago, Roddie Red fell asleep without answering the barn’s watering and feeding chores. Instead, he floated above the stars confronting a dreamlike scene discovering, a new breakfast café.

“Augustine, can I have another round?” Roddie Red requested.

“You used to bring kids down to the District of Columbia Horse Show on the Mall,” President Brittle remembered, “made sure they watched that gimmick competition.”

“The Escalating Wall” Roddie Red smiled, “taught them something they do not encounter in those classroom textbooks, then talk about how a problem can be solved, not using violence.”

“Seven feet, those horses jumped,” President Brittle recollected, “am I right?”

“You are correct, Mr. President,” Roddy Red answered.

“How do you get the horses to jump seven feet?”

Grinning, mimicking a magician Roddie Rod honestly replied, “Do I ask you how you build nuclear weapons?”

“Okay, you two,” Augustine intervened ending the discussion turning into a debate, “I hear, the fish are starting to swim upstream.”

“Just go down to the water, count three bushes, those fishes will be your friend for life,” Roddie Red commentated.

“Now, Roddie Red,” Augustine continued, “you have a lesson to teach.”

“Yes, I do,” Roddie Red confirmed, “new client lived until she was ninety, Augustine, and she still thinks she can win a Grand Prix.”

Picking up his gear, President Brittle started departing, “Augustine, where can someone get a good dinner around here?”

“Well, Mr. President, after you leave, I change the A in the sign to P, and we party until the wee hours, drinking the best beer,”

“Beer, huh, my brother,” then Skippy Brittle accepted the hint, remembering his siblings’ Holy Spirit financial profiting, “oh, that’s where Billy’s money came from.”