The God of Six Points
He never seemed to get older. Everyone in the Six Points area knew him. Their children knew him. Their grandparents knew him. He was like the three roads, Bloor Street, Dundas Street, and Kipling Avenue, there and unnoticed. The roads had been laid down in the 18 century. Before that they were paths. And he was there as well. The God of Six Points. No one had a bad word to say about him even though he did not rub everyone the right way. He was tall, a little stooped, grey hair almost white, more spindly than stout, with a voice that at times was soft and quiet and at other times strong and assertive. And then one day he killed a man.
