If Angel's Had Quills == A Spirit's Journal

**760 BCE**: Aboard the *Odyssey*, riding out a ferocious storm. The winds howl like the cries of old gods. I spot mermaids weaving through the frothy waves, their songs filled with longing. Odysseus grips the mast, defiant against nature's fury. Meanwhile, half the crew is experiencing seasickness like never before—it's hard to look heroic when you're clinging to a barrel for dear life.

**April 24, 1184 BCE**: I arrive late at Troy; the Greeks have already begun their invasion. They stumble from the wooden horse like newborn foals, tripping over their own swords. I can't help but chuckle. Someone clearly missed a practice drill or two.

**44 BCE**: Rome, the Ides of March. I drift through the Senate House as Brutus and the others surround Caesar. His shock is palpable. "Et tu, Brute?" he whispers. I notice one senator in the back, clearly wondering if stabbing Caesar is covered under his health insurance.

**476 CE**: The last Roman emperor, Romulus Augustulus, is deposed. I feel the old empire’s spirit dim as Odoacer claims his place. The Roman eagle, which soared so high, now limps on the ground—it's more of a pigeon at this point, really.

**793 CE**: I hover above Lindisfarne as Viking longships crest the waves. The monks tremble in their stone cloisters, trying to remember if they prayed for this exact scenario. Meanwhile, one Viking seems more concerned with finding the nearest pub than pillaging.

**1215 CE**: I float over the fields of Runnymede. King John, sullen and weary, signs the Magna Carta. The parchments flap in the wind; the ink is still fresh. The barons smirk, knowing they’ve finally cornered him, while King John looks like he's already plotting his next loophole.

**1492 CE**: I soar over the Atlantic, watching as Christopher Columbus’s ships—the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria—make landfall. Columbus steps onto the beach with great fanfare, only to realize he still has no idea where he actually is. Someone, get this man a map.

**1607 CE**: I drift over the settlement of Jamestown. The air is thick with the sweat of men and the whispers of Powhatan. I see the first tentative steps toward a new world, which are immediately followed by a heated debate over whose idea it was to settle in a swamp.

**1776 CE**: I find myself in Philadelphia, where men in powdered wigs draft the Declaration of Independence. The room buzzes with excitement and trepidation. As John Hancock scrawls his name, I can almost hear him thinking, "Maybe they won't notice if I write it extra big."

**1863 CE**: Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. I hover over the battlefield as smoke and the acrid scent of gunpowder fill the air. Amidst the chaos, one soldier seems more concerned about his missing left shoe than the battle. “A lost shoe in Gettysburg,” I muse—probably won’t make it into the history books.

**1914 CE**: Europe plunges into war. I hover over no man's land, where the earth is churned to mud, and the air is thick with the cries of young men. A group of soldiers play cards in a trench, betting cigarettes like it’s a night at the casino. I think, “There are better ways to blow off steam.”

**1945 CE**: Hiroshima. A flash, a heatwave like nothing I’ve ever felt before. The city is a sea of ash, and the cries of the living mix with the wails of the dying. Even I can't find a joke here; I move on in silence.

**1969 CE**: I float above the moon as Armstrong takes that first, monumental step. The dust of ages swirls under his boot, and I hear the faint echo of a dream realized: "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind." Meanwhile, Buzz Aldrin mutters, “Don’t forget to take the picture, Neil.”

**1989 CE**: Berlin. I watch as the wall crumbles, brick by brick. The jubilant cries of East and West fill the air. In the corner, someone with a mullet declares this the best day ever—he’s probably right.

**September 11, 2001**: I hover above New York City, unable to stop what is unfolding. The towers crumble, and a cloud of dust chokes the sky. I hear the mournful wail of sirens and feel a collective heart break. Even time pauses to grieve.

**2020 CE**: I float through a world under lockdown. Streets are empty, save for the masked few. The air is thick with anxiety, but I see neighbors communicating via window signs and bread-making becoming a competitive sport. Humor and sourdough keep the world turning.

**2024 CE**: Today. I watch as the world changes, ever so slowly, yet so profoundly. I wonder where the winds of time will carry me next—preferably somewhere with a sense of humor intact.