A journal of narrative writing.
Martin Points

Martin points to the fragrant dome of a water parsnip and, lo, so it becomes. In fact, that which Martin has realized into being may well be deadly hemlock and thus—ergo sum—I exist, not just to trundle Martin down streets of this his Bethlehem chirping the name of each object in this fallen world that his tiny finger outthrusts to designate a Significant Wonder, but to keep what's been newly begotten into meaning out of his mouth. Each truck grumbling by the progress of Martin's rolling palanquin is thus blessed. "Garbage truck!" I cry. "Oil truck!" "Beer truck!" "Motorcycle!" "Brother Crow," I caw. I who follow Martin like the small slave curled behind the feet of Suleiman The Great when his chariot wended in triumph through the adulation of his golden town, who chanted "Remember, O King, thou art but a man." Martin in his newness to this fallen world can still see the thirty-three Aeons of the Pleroma glowing out of each tiny floret of the swamp parsnip. Thus the noise of things in themselves delights him far more than my noise about them. And yet, Martin is magnanimous. If his attendant wills it so insistently, he will relinquish the dried dog turd for the polished beach stone. No, Martin will not discern the wise man murmuring to the pale shell of moon along the shore path from the fool jabbering on her cell phone. To each and all he claps alike a one-handed "Ciao!" though he's yet to come, to see, to conquer ancient countries where the customs of such greetings, still new to us, have lost their names to time.