April 4, 2020

Eye of the Storm (An Enochian Tale)

It began, as friendships only rarely do among urchins, with a shy smile and an offered scrap of bread.

The boy peering down at me through dirty blond curls was even scrawnier than me, and at least a year or two younger. I was shocked at the sight. Not because I hadn’t heard him clumsily ascending to the sun-bathed rooftop from the alleyway below over the past several minutes. I’d carefully chosen my urban retreat for that exact reason. But that wasn’t why I was shocked. Nor was it for the fact that the boy barely looked physically capable of the climb—though that part was true enough.

What truly shocked me, though, was the hunk of bread he was holding out. Holding out freely, as if he actually intended to hand the precious morsel over to me.

Unless you happen to have grown up on the streets, I doubt I can adequately express the significance of such a seemingly small gesture. The comparison is far from perfect, but suffice it to say: it would have been less disconcerting on that day to see the boy pointing a knife or a loaded gun my way.

He couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old. He looked more than half-starved himself. He had no business offering me anything. Least of all, precious food. No business that could possibly end well for him.


enochian war, short story

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