My Writing

Saturday, January 1, 2011

Son of Sky-god


We are mortal, I know it sounds like a joke. I know because I found the one exception. I found him on a city bus, or he found me. His name was Julio. We spoke different languages but could understand each other perfectly. He had lived for more than 10,000 years. I didn’t believe at first, but then he showed me his diaries. They took up his whole house, the diaries. He wrote at least one new entry every day. He didn’t know the word “diary,” though. He called them “aspects of my spirit.” That seemed fanciful, but I didn’t say anything. “What do you write with?” I asked. He showed me his stylus. It was made from charcoal, he said. “Do you have a wife?” I asked. He smiled but didn’t answer. He pointed at the window. Inside, he said. I nodded. He made me lunch and watched me eat. We walked through his garden behind the house. There was a well in the center of the garden. There was a small pool of water gathered at the bottom of the well. Julio took my hand and pressed the charcoal stylus into my palm. Kill me, he said. Please kill me.

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