WRITING: Greed

There was a man from Yucatan who practiced as a boy, made a living as a man, at eating fire and broken glass and duck eggs whole.

And when one day the villagers had seen enough he ran away to find another place where he could make the others wonder and toss coins his way.  But he had learned, and soon moved on from town to town and soon he found the need to buy a trunk.  To travel with and hold his tricks of trade, for he now too was swallowing snakes and sticking needles in his tongue, and too, he had a place to keep his money.

Cancun was bright and welcoming with lights and tourists who had never seen–never mind, comprehended–this man’s talent.  Their gold soon filled his little trunk and he bought himself a house upon the beach that sprawled around him meeting aqua blue-est sea.  He left his windows whole, and fire was kept within the great stone hearth that met approval of his neighbors and their wine.  He rarely, finally never, ate a snake again but lived upon his little plot of land until it grew around and swallowed him in debt.  Without an egg, without a fight, without an understanding of it all, he packed his little trunk and ran away.