Holding On

Once there was a man whose name was Tim, though most people called him Fetch thinking that was his name.

Tim, or Fetch, was slightly eccentric and always dragged a large dead branch around with him. It looked like half a tree, really. One day the neighbourhood bully had mocked Tim walking by with his branch, tossed him a ball and yelled, “Here, fetch!” The other boys had laughed, and somehow the name had stuck.

Dragging a branch around with you all day every day brings a lot of problems with it. Tim had a hard time finding a job or a flat. Shops didn’t like it when he came in, and after an incident with the door, he couldn’t even go on the bus anymore. People mocked him and sometimes threw things.

Whatever difficulties the branch caused him, Tim found a way around them. Sometimes he thought wistfully about all the things he couldn’t do because of the branch, and then he hated it. Again and again, he decided to let it go, but somehow he just couldn’t.

A few times he tried to get help. The first time, they wouldn’t even let him in to see the doctor as he refused to leave the branch outside. Then, one day, he saw an advertisement for a new therapist promising a 100% success rate in letting things go. Tim decided to try again and made an appointment.

The man with very shiny teeth invited Tim to lie down on the couch. He was to close his eyes, let go of the branch, and count backwards from 100 in steps of 3. When he opened his eyes, everything would be alright, and he would no longer need the branch. Tim was scared, but he so longed to free himself of the branch that he screwed up his courage and forced himself to try. When he opened his eyes again, the branch was gone.

Tim screamed and screamed, and even under sedation he only calmed down when he was safely holding on to his branch again. He left the office shaking and promised himself he would never, ever trust anyone again. Better to live with his branch, however poorly, than to subject himself to such an ordeal again.

So time went on, and Tim still lived with his branch. The many practical difficulties didn’t bother him so much, but he did get lonely. No one seemed to want a friend who dragged a dead branch around with him. So when one day, as he was walking in the park, a lady looked up from her book and gave him a nod and a hint of a smile, it was almost a shock.

Tim thought he might have been mistaken, so the next day he took care to walk past the bench she was sitting on, and again she gave him a smile. It became a habit: he would walk past her bench, and they would exchange a smile. This may not sound like much, but for Tim it quickly became the best part of his day.

So when one rainy day she wasn’t there, he was very disappointed. He turned to leave the park, but then she called from a pavilion. Elated by this sudden turn of events, he went up to her, sat down beside her on the pavilion steps, and said hello.

From then on it became a new habit: they would sit on the bench together a while and talk. Nothing much, just things about the weather and the park, or maybe the squirrels. Then one day she asked him whether she could touch his branch. This was quite a shock for him. People had mocked his branch, some boys had tried to kick it, but no one had wanted to touch it, much less asked his permission to do so. But still he shook his head, he’d rather she didn’t. “That’s fine,” she said, “it’s your branch.”

A few days later, he shyly said she might touch the branch if she wanted. And she did. Gently, and not for long. “It’s a good branch,” she said. Tears came into his eyes, and he hurried off. “Why did you say that?” he asked the next day. “Well, it clearly means a lot to you,” she replied.

One day he asked about her job, and she told him she was a therapist with an office beside the park. He told her about his experience with the man with the shiny teeth. He couldn’t quite hear what she muttered, but he did catch the words “dangerous” and “quack”. Some weeks later, after making her promise she would never try to take his branch away from him, he made an appointment.

“Where did you get the branch?” The question surprised him. He had never really given it much thought, it seemed to have always been there. But slowly it came back to him. The sea-trip when he was a boy. The accident, the screaming. Grabbing hold of a floating branch, and never letting go.

“So it saved your life,” she said. Tim looked at his branch with new eyes. “I guess,” he said. “That’s something to be grateful for,” she said. “But maybe you don’t need to hold on to it all the time anymore?”

Step by step, Tim learned to let go of the branch. First just for seconds, then minutes. Soon he could cross the room and sit on the couch, hardly taking his eyes off it in the beginning, later only glancing at it now and then. Then he could leave it in the waiting area, and one proud day he came to the office without it.

Tim kept the branch, in his bedroom at first, then moving it to the spare room, and finally into the attic. And when he came across it by chance he would remember that whatever difficulties it had caused him, one day, when he had nothing else to hold on to, it had saved his life.

The Iron Kingdom

Once upon a time there was a king who had four sons. The sons’ lives were ill-fated: one died of illness, another fell to his death from a tower, and a third was killed in battle. Then there was only one son left to succeed his father. The last young prince was a sickly boy, and doctors warned the king that his son’s heart might not be strong enough to let him live to be king.

This was a tragedy, not only for the king and queen who loved their last little boy dearly, but for the whole kingdom. Without a clear succession, many feared it would once again be racked by civil war. So the king offered the highest reward for anyone who could save the prince’s life.

Scores of healers and magicians made their way to the castle, but all the herbal droughts and magic amulets did not make the young prince any better. Indeed, he grew weaker by the day. So when at last a man came along and proposed a radical solution, the desperate king and queen were willing to listen.

The man who called himself the magister said he would take the prince away to heal. And as the problem was the boy’s heart, a band of iron would be set around it to make him strong. This had worked well on many a sickly boy, the magister said, indicating the hearty adolescents in his company. The king was impressed with the lads, with their mature and resolute air. Such a lad could well succeed to the kingship, he thought.

The queen did not want to part with her precious little boy, but the magister was persuasive. The young prince needed to be away from the restrictive castle atmosphere and the nurses’ coddling, to play and be educated amongst other boys of his own age. A boy who would one day be king, he said, must needs let go of his mother’s skirts one day. The prince would be in the very best hands and the iron band around his heart would make him strong. Reluctantly, the king and queen agreed to let the magister take the prince away.

The prince thrived, or so the magister’s reports told the king and queen. And once the boy had mastered his letters, his tales of sport and play warmed his parents’ hearts. As the king’s son and heir had been sent away, many noblemen’s sons were sent likewise. And their letters too told of sport and play, of lessons and rewards.

Now and then, the prince was sent back to the castle to visit so his parents could assess his progress. The queen would cry a little when he came, and more when he left again, but the king would always remind her it was all for the prince’s own good.

The years went by, and at last the prince returned for good. He was tall and strong now, fearless and resolute. But the queen found it hard to recognise the son she had sent away all those years ago, and she grieved for the little boy she had lost.

As the king grew older, the prince took on many responsibilities, and finally became king himself. He fulfilled his promise and became a strong leader, though he had little time for those who were weak or poor. Away from home he had known only the company of noblemen’s sons: now he knew little of ordinary people’s lives, and cared less.

When the young king in turn had sons, he too sent them away, and had an iron band set around their hearts to make them strong. His aging mother protested, surely they were healthy enough and didn’t need it. But her son only laughed: it never did me any harm, did it? So it became the fashion, and all the noblemen’s sons were sent away, and soon the daughters too. And an iron band was set around their hearts to make them strong.

For most of the children it seemed to work: they became resourceful and independent, if a little distant, a little cold. But some had their spirits crushed by the iron band: they died or left the kingdom, never to return. These were the weaklings, it was said, and the kingdom was better off without them.

Over the years, the kingdom changed. There had been greed and nepotism before, but there had also been laughter and music. Now the rulers had only cold disdain for all who were not of their kind, laughter was mockery or icy ridicule, and the music died away. The land became the Iron Kingdom, ruled by people with iron in their hearts.

But for those who fled, there was a signpost behind the pass leading out of the kingdom. It showed the way to a forge by a river where a smith with a crinkly smile would receive the traveller kindly. If they had that look of cold despair, he would offer to remove the iron band. “Can you do that?” they would ask in disbelief. “It will hurt,” the smith would say gravely, “but it can be done.”

Once the operation is over and the traveller is up and about again, they walk by the river. And soon they sit down, and the tears start to flow. Suddenly, they can hear the sweet gurgle of the river, the singing of the birds, and the shepherd’s pipe. For with an iron band around your heart, you cannot cry. And without tears, there can be no music, no laughter, and no love.

When the traveller sets off again there is still pain, but there is also hope. With heartfelt thanks the traveller takes leave of the smith, offering payment. The smith waves it away. “I was once like you,” he says, and shows his scars.

As the traveller leaves they exchange a smile of kinship: the kinship born of shared pain, which, eternal or fleeting, runs deeper than that of blood.

Dizzying Heights

I inched forward, holding my breath. Don’t look, don’t look. My eyes flickered downward, and I gave a little lurch. I was falling.

Get a grip! a little voice inside me growled. People are staring! I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Everything’s fine, the voice breathed.

After a while the idiocy struck me of standing by one of the most spectacular sights of the world – with my eyes screwed shut. Come on, the little voice coaxed. With an effort I opened my eyes: first one, then the other. I looked at the cliffs opposite. Breathtaking.

Suddenly I was soaring.

This week’s wcgu prompt. Photo by Julia.

Finding Beauty

Life is simply a collection of little lives,

each lived one day at a time.

Each day should be spent

finding beauty in flowers and poetry

and talking to animals.

– Nicholas Sparks

The Sunday Post Challenge: Simplicity.

Round Robin

Dear Friends.

as usual our family has enjoyed an eventful year, and we’d like to share our news with you all.

As some of you already know, our house was repossessed earlier in the year, due to an unfortunate misunderstanding with the tax authorities. Happily we’ve found the perfect little family home, and we’re currently parked just 3 miles up the North Road. Grant attached it to a power line with his usual technical skill. Later in the year he was fired from his job, but not before he got hold of some choice bits of information on several members of the board. We are looking forward to a comfortable retirement in the near future.

Our pride and joy Sharon failed the entrance exam to the new school, but with her usual courage she’s decided to soldier on and try again next year. Her charming new boyfriend Dwight is very successful in the pharmaceutical line, so let us know if you need anything. Our dear son Steven was arrested (his first time!!!), but we’re confident he will get off on a technicality.

After our move, Rover went missing, though we believe he may still be in the area. We have heard of a number of chickens disappearing, and he always did love chicken. Ginger on the other hand is thriving – and providing us with regular fresh meat: the local butcher has a cat-flap.

As for me, I’ve got my little flask, and am fine as always.

We wish you all a Merry Christmas and an equally successful 2013.

Donna + Grant + Sharon + Steven + Rover + Ginger

The End Is Nigh

The End is Nigh! the man shouted.

Is there still time for hot chocolate? Riley asked.

The-End-is-Nigh guy blinked. Ah, maybe, I don’t know.

― Jana Oliver, Forbidden

Why, thank-you, dearie. I never say no to a biscuit. And what’s your name, young lady? Louise? The old face cracked in a smile.

Do I believe what? That the dragon is coming and the world will end tomorrow?

Now, when I was your age, the world was always coming to an end. Left and right people were predicting disasters. I think it’s because they want the world to change. And right they are! But no, I don’t think the world will end tomorrow.

The dragon, now, that’s a whole other story. The old eyes twinkled. I’ve seen it myself, you know…

* * *

T.Mastgrave’s story challenge: the End of Time.

The Veil

Art: the reproduction of

what the senses perceive in nature

through the veil of the mist.

– Edgar Allan Poe

When I was young I thought a lot about life, truth, what is right, and what is good. I was confident that, with time, I would know more. Now my eyesight is fading, and it seems that the answers are further away than ever. Indeed, I’m no longer sure these questions have an answer at all.

As if reality is receding into the mists, leaving more and more grey areas. I wonder whether you become less and less sure of your ground, until you are swallowed by the mists of uncertainty?

Is that why they mean by “behind the veil”?

* * *

The 100-wcgu at Julia’s Place: Grey.

Every Which Way

The pessimist complains about the wind;

the optimist expects it to change;

the realist adjusts the sails.

– William Arthur Ward

Project winds can be gusty, especially in I.T., but this was really something else. We had been buffeted to and fro all year by changing requirements, priorities, and resources – but this? Major design changes in complex accounting software, just weeks before go-live? At the end of User Acceptance Testing?

It was quite a serious meeting, and I really tried not to laugh, but I simply couldn’t help it. Then, of course, half the team went into hysterics. It was Eric’s fault, really, for keeping a straight face when he asked:

Er, were you planning to do any actual testing before go-live?

* * *

This week’s 100-wcgu: …I really tried not to laugh…

Any resemblance to real projects, live or dead, is purely coincidental inevitable.

An Element of Surprise

Charm

is a product

of the unexpected.

– Jose Marti

He loved public demonstrations. This one would be a triumph.

When he came with an order, the technicians always growled. Impossible, they would say. Not enough time, no resources. Grumble, grumble, grumble. But lay on enough pressure and, hey presto, the impossible would happen.

He gave his developers a pointed look and turned the key. Nothing. He tried again. The silence was deafening.

What’s wrong?

If you want us to build a car, said one technician,
…in two weeks, the second chimed in,
…entirely from recycled cardboard…, the third,
…surely, they went unisono, you don’t expect it to run?

* * *

This week’s 100-word-challenge at Julia’s Place: …the silence was deafening…

Granpaul

In a modern comedy, a bachelor left to bring up two children would be half a child himself; they’d have marvelous fun together. Real life isn’t like that.

Granpaul’s approach to life was methodical; he was a chemical engineer, after all. When a driving accident left him with the task of bringing up his sister’s children, he took his new responsibilities seriously. Things were done by the book: luckily, the book was Dr Spock. The idea that you know more than you think you do confused Granpaul, but he soldiered on, trying to let the children unfold their personalities on the book’s instructions. He didn’t buy other books. They were all written by experts, surely, so they’d all say the same thing.

In the picture below, you see my mother and uncle Ted holding on to Granpaul’s hands. The sun is in his eyes, but he was probably born with the serious expression. I’m not sure I ever heard him laugh. Not because he didn’t get the joke, but because he never took time off from the serious business of living. Being accurate was important to him: he would never let us call him Grandad, though over time “Great-uncle Paul” did get shortened. Was he secretly pleased it became nearly Granpa?

It’s really only when people die that you realise how little you knew them. He tried hard to do things right. He never spoke about his feelings. He approved of trees. I think he liked them because they were sturdy and predictable. You can depend on a tree.

On my way home for the funeral, I saw a tree, and suddenly the tears came. I hope that in his own way he understood how much he meant to us all.

Photo courtesy of the Daily Post,
this week’s prompt for the DP Writing Challenge.

Follow Your Heart

Ben had followed his heart. The heart he had lost to Jessica, the dreamer.

He had heard tales of the city since childhood. He had never realised how big the city was, how impersonal. People moved around in rivers, pouring out of metro-stations and down streets. And they lived in big concrete blocks, grey and dreary, like this one.

It had been stupid to come. How could he ever hope to find her? He had trailed around for days now, and hadn’t seen a sign of her.

Suddenly he saw it and smiled. He had found her. He was sure.

* * *

Julia’s 100-word-challenge: the significance of an orange spot.

The Secret Ingredient

You want the recipes for my potions, my girl, the ingredients and the incantations.

For potions of love and of nurture, you must take what is growing: the early bud, the first leaf, the tip of the vine picked at dawn under a new moon.

For potions of destruction, duplicity, and death, take what is dying: the wilting leaf, the withered stem, the hardened fruit picked at dusk when the moon is full.

But the true secret is that what is in your heart when you stir the pot will enter your potion.

So be careful what you hope for.

* * *

I was stumped by Julia Skinner’s 100 word challenge to write a recipe fit for a witch, until I came across inspiration in Lillie McFerrin’s 5 sentence challenge: Potions.

Blowing in the Wind

I once read that when you’re depressed, you find it hard to make small decisions. I guess that means I’m not depressed. Pizza or pasta, the green shirt or the blue one – not a problem.

But I’ve got this offer to work in Hong-Kong. It sounds great, maybe a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. But it’s a three year contract. What if I hate it there? What it I don’t find a new job when I come back? Either way, whatever I decide could ruin my whole life, and I’ll always regret it. What do I do?

Maybe I’ll wait. Just a bit.

* * *

T. Mastgrave’s story challenge: Fear of Life.
And a slightly different take on the Travel Theme Challenge: Couples.

Buried Treasure

For in the true nature of things,

every green tree is far more glorious

than if it were made of gold and silver.

– Martin Luther

Nora has sharp eyes, I’ll give her that. But she does tend to exaggerate.

Her daughter had come home with news of the landslide. However dangerous, landslides were also life-givers. They threw up much that was buried under the wasted surface. They had become more and more frequent, as the underground nets weaving the soil together slowly turned to dust.

Nora had always been excitable. But now she was babbling of buried treasure. A seedling! It can’t be that! Time will tell…

Tears filled Neesha’s eyes as she remembered what had once covered so much of the ravaged planet.

Trees.

* * *

This week’s 100 word challenge at Julia’ place: …it can’t be that time…

The Lesser Evil

Democracy is the worst form of government
except all the others that have been tried.
– Winston Churchill

RB dragged his burden to the store-room. The sentry waved him in.
– Cast your vote yet? the sentry asked.
– Nah. RB scurried out. He wasn’t sure. The National Block wanted to keep things as they were. The Forwards Party wanted change: Shorter hours, less military service.

Shorter hours sounded good. But where was the food to come from? With less military service, more workers would be free, they said. Would the sentries know how to forage?  What if there was an attack?

Difficult questions. RB’s antennae waved ceaselessly. Getting the vote didn’t seem to make life easier for a worker-ant.

* * *

T. Mastgrave’s story challenge: The Lesser of Two Evils.

The Space in Between

Never talk to a quantum physicist!

Usually my physicist friends’ conversation goes right over my head – bad enough, but when they really try to explain things, it’s worse.

Last night, Josh explained about quantum foam. How space isn’t infinitely divisible or smooth, but there’s a smallest distance two things can be apart.  And that there’s really no reason why time should be different. So there isn’t a smooth timeline, but really a succession of separate moments, like pearls on a string. And we hop from one to another.

Hop? What about the space in between?

I woke with another headache.

* * *

Join the 100-word-challenge-for-grown-ups at Julia’s place! This week’s prompt was my last line.

Happiness Is…

Enjoying the sunshine.

You know when you look everywhere for your glasses, and you can’t find them? And then they turn up on your head? Or the book you hunt for high and low? That was on your bedside table all along, lying the wrong way up? You get so annoyed while you’re searching, and then a little embarrassed…

No, it’s not age. You see, something I’ve always been looking for. One day I realised, suddenly, it was in my hand. It always had been. But I couldn’t see it because it didn’t look like I thought it did.

What I was looking for? Didn’t I tell you?

Happiness.

A cozy place.

Room for diversity.

Appreciating what we have.

The wider perspective.

Pleasure in the small things.

Space for reflection.

Enjoying the sunshine.

I was stumped by this week’s 100-word-challenge-for-grown-ups (…suddenly it was in my hand…), but when I saw the weekly photo challenge it suddenly fell into place.

Rebel

K ’12. Ink & watercolour sketch from Julia’s photo prompt.

She wasn’t sure what the attraction was. It had always been there: even as a girl, she’d stood for hours at the railings of a high bridge. There was some indefinable quality, a thrill she couldn’t explain.

She looked down into the depths knowing it would take just one little step, one little push. A frisson ran down her spine. Did she want to die? No. She loved life far too much.

Was it the risk? That maybe somewhere inside her there was a little rebel who just might push her over? To fly through the air, only the once?

* * *

The 100-words-challenge-for-grown-ups at Julia’s Place.
Also fits in nicely with the Weekly Photo Challenge: Solitary 🙂

Precious Privilege

When you arise in the morning,

think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive:

to breathe, to think, to enjoy,

to love.

– Marcus Aurelius

Jakesprinter‘s challenge: Morning.

The Cartographer

He hated water. It was untidy. It moved around. You couldn’t pin it down, and that was his purpose in life. Measuring and charting, making sure everything had its proper place.

Now, continents moving or mountains rising – those were different things altogether. Those were fascinating. You could chart not only what was, but what would be!

But water was … flighty. He wished all water would evaporate off the face of the earth.

It would have incensed him to know that when his wish came true, the sun would melt his planet, leaving only foam floating on a sea of fire.

* * *

Inspired by T.Mastgrave’s story challenge: Cartography.

Creative challenge – 1006words

Lesson learnt. Will water next budgie.

1006words: Paint / shoot 1000 words, write six.

Please join in!

Create a 1006-word story and publish it on your blog. Add the tag 1006words to your post, and leave a comment below “1006words + link to your post”, so others can also find them. If you can’t leave a comment, just contact me with your link.

I look forward to your stories!

Neighbours

You inherited feuds and prejudices like you inherited clothes or memorabilia. But those you threw in the bin.

Yes, her parents had been outraged when the international courts had given the Browns full citizenship rights. And had steered clear of them ever since.

You’d think it would be the other way round. It wasn’t the Browns who’d slaughtered people. And none of them had ever indicated anything like hatred or reproach. To anyone. Ever.

Did she really want this legacy?

She walked over to the old one and touched his gnarled limb. His leaves rustled softly over her hair.

Neighbours now.

***

I decided to give you two-stories-for-the-price-of-one, as this week’s 100wcgu prompt “Legacy” inspired both.

Drawing the Line

Do you have it too? Yes, of course. Everyone does. It’s the universal experience when faced with a blank sheet of paper. Only children and fools are exempt.

The paper is white and fresh, unspoilt. So full of promise, of infinite potential. We’re afraid that our first mark will spoil it. It will ruin everything, deny the promise, wash away the potential. Once we’re working, we’ll do just fine. But that first line is terrifying.

So I sat staring at my pad. I’d already wasted all the time I reasonably could. Time to jump in.

There! The line was drawn.

Agapanthus. Ink & watercolour sketch.

This week’s 100wcgu at Julia’s place: …the line was drawn…

Hangdog

I don’t usually read the papers, but this morning was special: there just might be a small piece about my paintings in the local section. Not that I really care. No fame and glory for me: I know I’m not exactly Picasso. But all my friends would read it!

Then I found it: pure poison. Oozing condescension. I couldn’t believe it! That supercilious little jerk. Angrily I tore the offending paper to shreds. Take that you bastard! And that!

When James came down and wanted his paper, there was only confetti on the floor. I blamed it on the dog.

Bertie back again. Is he feeling guilty about skiving off for so long?

My contribution to this week’s 100wcgu: …I blamed it on the dog…

From the Mists

Does it happen to you? You see someone, and you’re sure you know them. From school? From work? An old neighbor, maybe? This woman I saw yesterday seemed so familiar, but who was she? The whole evening I couldn’t let it go, and kept on searching in the dark recesses of my mind.

This morning I suddenly knew. Alice! The bitch who had pinched my boyfriend Thomas. Tall, elegant, charming Thomas. And married him.

Wasn’t it just last year he was sent down for bigamy and swindling all those women out of their savings? Serves her bloody well right!

A slightly late entry for the current 100WCGU: …in the dark recess of my mind…

Aiming high

Life without a high aim,
is like a ship without a rudder.

– Eileen Caddy