UAE Unfettered

Hope is that elusive ingredient that makes a story good. Change in it self, gives us hope. When we read a good story, we hope things will turn out good in the end. We give ourselves much license to accomodate the buildup of anticipation of our hope fulfilled. Yes hope is what makes a story good however, I think often that Byro’s life; all the things pertaining to Byro’s life, as stories go, would make a fairly bad story for there is no hope in it. No hope, that is, of ever being told exactly as he thinks it ought to be told by him to a willing audience. And yet the hope exists that one day Byro will get over his fear of getting it wrong or telling it badly. Where the hope for Byro does lie too, in this untold as yet story is in this: that He will be, soon, finally able get things right. After that, the Byromaniac’s hope lies in actually beginning that all too familiar, rigorous, process of committing that right writ to paper - to write the story that needs should be wrote. Also there exists a hope that the right writ will not point its gleeful fingers at Byro himself the author. there exists a hope that the right writ will not point gleeful fingers at his life as reported in the third person singular, as if the hope-filled story is readying itself from the start to shift blame for the inevitable unrighteousness, gaps in reason for the sake of poetry, and similarities that don’t or ought not to bear any resemblance to real persons therein.

The hope that drives Byro forward to eventually write this story right is the hope that the expose’ doesn’t expose too much. Yet too, that enough will be exposed so as to be believed as a good story, accepted; it’s main character(s) identified-with, redeemed by and forgiven of and loved by and liked by, even, readers wide. For what is the point really of writing an "everyman" to a narrow readership? In the spirit of the "everyman" then, the story is not about Byro, as some who imagine, having done their thorough research into the author’s life and times. Rather what follows is the story of an everyman. It is a story correctly writ enough to be filled with the kind of hope that we are stayed for. It’s the story Byro’s supposed to write after finally getting many things right. Though by the profit margin dictated by the publishing schedule, still there remain the many almost right passages not only to be written from this day forth but also that could be a bit better in the next draft. In the mean time the beginning of Byro’s story is here published just so, for now. And so it begins, the story rightly writ, by Byromaniac.

Once upon a time there was a boy named Byromaniac who was born in the middle of the night, during a right nasty, ill –timed, Taurus in the sky Canadian blizzard, in the civilized-enough Canadian city of Edmonton. The doctor smacked his bottom and a black Bic pen fell from the heavens into one of the Byromaniac’s little hands to match the color of his thick wild black crew-do and into the other fell a little golden eaglet. Edmonton is a city of a million, planted smack dab in the middle of the largest wheat producing field in the world – the Alberta prairie. The Byromaniac was born surrounded by wheat and people saying "eh" a lot. For exactly three months, the first three months of his life. Then just as whisk is an onomatopoeic term connoting, denoting, downright meaning briskly changed from one state into a foamy ‘nother, his byromaniness was whisked off to Africa by blessed Parents with the compulsion and the churches backing offering a tangible vs intangible mission of healing to Africans and to do the many interesting things in Africa that make deep lifelong impacts on those family members along for the adventure that inevitably accompanies such, in the very vien of that ancient tradition that harkens to mission and the call of almighty God. This, rather than work three decades, retire, get a work-gift, and handshake.

A mind-bogglingly beautiful manor estate facing the west is built onto a bulldozed Plateau, near the top of one of Mbingo, Cameroon, West Africa’s many gigantic hillsides was Byro’s home for the first year of his life. Byro, mom and dad, Byro’s brothers, a dog, and a monkey lived here in a perpetual state of bliss me slowly, bliss me quick for a whole year in our African manor. It is of course all a fog for our young man Byro but in the telling of it, yet another hope in this yet to be told tale is that the reader can imagine and perhaps begin right here and now to appreciate with some degree clarity, the wonder of African manor living and the profound effect it would have on a toddler of one….

As inspriration kicks me gutwise so will I write further.