The Mayor is much like
I imagine a father might be.
He named me like a father would.
Cole.
Cole Cross.
I don't know where my last name
came from.
I always suspect that he made it up.
My father's last name was Smith;
and the Mayor's last name is Spurgeon.
I prefer to call him
Mayor.
He asked me to write in this journal.
He gave me the journal under the old-lone-oak on a quiet morning.
The Mayor's wife dislikes when I write at the dinner table.
But she tolerates me. Even when I spill.
She knows what a miracle it is for me to write everyday.
Most blind children cannot...
1076, Dey 2, 17th hour.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
My First Journal Entry
The Mayor tells me that I was born in the 12th hour of the Violet Moon on the Third day, in the year 1076.
My mother died giving birth to me, and
my father ran when he saw my eyes.
They are both pupilless, golden and vibrant as the sunset.
Uncannilly, I still remember his howling and weeping echoing in the back of my mind,
"No! Not my son!" he cried over and over, running off into
the violet moonlight.
The Mayor tells me that I was as silent as my Mother when I came
into the world.
Born in the dank shed of his backyard.
I cannot remember my Mother's name
for my life.
The Mayor reminds me often.
And even more often her name escapes me,
as if by magic.
I do not care to remember my father's name...
He's gone now.
1076, Dey 1, 2nd hour
My mother died giving birth to me, and
my father ran when he saw my eyes.
They are both pupilless, golden and vibrant as the sunset.
Uncannilly, I still remember his howling and weeping echoing in the back of my mind,
"No! Not my son!" he cried over and over, running off into
the violet moonlight.
The Mayor tells me that I was as silent as my Mother when I came
into the world.
Born in the dank shed of his backyard.
I cannot remember my Mother's name
for my life.
The Mayor reminds me often.
And even more often her name escapes me,
as if by magic.
I do not care to remember my father's name...
He's gone now.
1076, Dey 1, 2nd hour
Monday, March 28, 2011
The Intro: by Eli
The morning mist rolled coolly over the green glades. The birds chirped and chattered in their many fluttery languages. The sun hid behind the edge of the world, not yet ready to give its light to the world. A soft breeze carried the loose grass on its back, taking it to far away and strange places.
It seemed a morning like any other on the rolling glades that stretched just beyond the Green Village. The world was not disturbed. Not by the wind, nor the sun, nor the mist, nor the fluttering birds. Not even by the Man and the Boy wandering to find rest under the old, lone-oak- tree that lay quietly in the field. They were silent as they waded through the mist; the moist grass barely squeaked under their feet. The Man gripped the boy’s hand lightly, leading him to the oak tree. The Man and the Boy sat, resting their backs against the tree. They spoke quietly, looking forward to the open range. No one could tell all that they said then, and I suspect no one will ever know. It is best left alone. For that is not the point. Not the main event. What I am here to begin; what I am here to tell is much greater than a few words whispered under a lone-oak-tree.
It is the tale of the Boy. The Boy sitting under the oak tree is what’s important; and the journal with old, yellow pages that the man gives the Boy is even more so. For without the yellowed journal, I would have nothing to give. The valuable tale that the Boy and I tell together through his book and my own memory would not be. But I have kept it all these many years for a reason. The yellowed, dusty book with its many adventures, strange tales, and words of wisdom is a gift. I beg that you listen.
Open your ears and widen your gaze….
- Eli
It seemed a morning like any other on the rolling glades that stretched just beyond the Green Village. The world was not disturbed. Not by the wind, nor the sun, nor the mist, nor the fluttering birds. Not even by the Man and the Boy wandering to find rest under the old, lone-oak- tree that lay quietly in the field. They were silent as they waded through the mist; the moist grass barely squeaked under their feet. The Man gripped the boy’s hand lightly, leading him to the oak tree. The Man and the Boy sat, resting their backs against the tree. They spoke quietly, looking forward to the open range. No one could tell all that they said then, and I suspect no one will ever know. It is best left alone. For that is not the point. Not the main event. What I am here to begin; what I am here to tell is much greater than a few words whispered under a lone-oak-tree.
It is the tale of the Boy. The Boy sitting under the oak tree is what’s important; and the journal with old, yellow pages that the man gives the Boy is even more so. For without the yellowed journal, I would have nothing to give. The valuable tale that the Boy and I tell together through his book and my own memory would not be. But I have kept it all these many years for a reason. The yellowed, dusty book with its many adventures, strange tales, and words of wisdom is a gift. I beg that you listen.
Open your ears and widen your gaze….
- Eli
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
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