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Prologue to a Work in Progress

Below is a very short prologue to a book I started years ago -- just a small glimpse into yet another story that's still working on me.

***

It was like this:

In a suburb of a certain city, a letter fell from the delivery slot in a front door; the metal clang died, and the envelope slid to a stop. Around the corner in a dimly lit living room, a set of ears and eyes went on not hearing, not seeing; the ears didn't notice the pad-pad-pad of feet slapping the sidewalk as they rushed away or the whispers in the air of the house as the words contained in the letter begged to be let out; neither did the eyes see the small shadow as it danced across the lawn or the flapping wings overhead as birds the size of throwing stones tried to keep up.

They didn't notice much of anything.

Not yet.

And now a boy with skin like chocolate stands and stares at a street sign -- he does not stare because of the houses surrounding him, nor because he is lost. No, he stares because of the name.

He bites his red apple and wipes his chin with the back of his hand. And then he squats in the dust, and with his thumb pushes the dust into letters, into the word hanging over his head.

Eldorado.

And now he is gone -- and none but One knows how and why -- and the street, named Eldorado, and its inhabitants didn't notice.

Not yet.
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