At the age of three, William Moore knew all about the rocks his father brought home from construction sites. The lump of igneous rock at the bottom of the mayonnaise jar his mother had given him had been unearthed near a sink hole, the chunk of smooth rose quartz beside it had been wrested from a squirrel’s nut stash. They were all precious, unique. But the one he kept on his nightstand, the strip of petrified wood, found in a rusty tackle box, was his favorite. How tantalizing, how filled with mysteries it was—this strange object glistening with red and ochre, this once living thing that had turned to stone….

* * *

When William reached his fourth birthday, he made a startling discovery: if he kept silent, and listened closely, he could hear what people were thinking. Until then, all he knew of people came from what they told him, which actually said very little of value about them. But once he heard what they weren’t telling him, he forgot about his rocks. It was much more fun to stay quiet and pay attention. What, of importance, did he need to say anyway?

His parents were alarmed by his sudden muteness, and dragged him to his pediatrician, the old greasy-haired Dr. Monroe. Dr. Monroe handed him a sour pink sucker…


Read all of “Enlightenment”


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Wednesday, 22 November 2017

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Latest Comments

Monika Schott A rickety bridge
18 November 2017
Thanks, Di.
Diane Rampertshammer A rickety bridge
17 November 2017
Pure poetry - very evocative - you are a painter with words..Di
Ken Hartke Lamenting the Lost Art of Conversation
12 November 2017
Thanks for the comments. Rosy -- I look at this sort of social conversation as a healthful thing for...
Rosy Cole First Song
12 November 2017
This is almost like a memory of birth, reviving those sensations, but translated in imagistic terms....
Rosy Cole Lamenting the Lost Art of Conversation
12 November 2017
Oh Ken, how rare that is! A gift. What a lovely sojourn in the byways and an unexpected exchange of ...

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