Flash Fiction – a super short story based loosely on one night not so long ago…
I’m tired. I’m tired because I had a shitty nights’ sleep. I had a shitty nights’ sleep because I was awoken at sparrow’s fart by a sore shoulder which turned out to be only the beginning of my first world problems…
You see it begins with the fact I’m not one of those people who toss and turn and who appears to forget that they share the bed with another person, but I will get to that in a moment. I on the other hand, fall asleep in one position and then for several hours do not move. Now it is my assumption – it is only an assumption because usually I am asleep, so therefore not awake and aware – that once I begin to feel uncomfortable I move position into a somewhat more comfortable position and do not wake – or if I do, I do not remember doing so. Last night though was a whole different ballgame.
Last night I woke with a stabbing pain in my shoulder and with my eyes firmly shut and my brain in denial at being awake, I attempted to move to alleviate the pain. It was then I realised why I had not automatically moved in my sleep…I was penned into a small sliver of the bed by the one we shall henceforth call ‘the large hairy starfish’. The immovable large hairy starfish had me cornered and my movability (is that a word…?) was hampered by a leg to the south and heavy breathing to the north. Now I don’t know about you but personally I have trouble coping with the hot humid breath of another person, particularly when it’s aimed directly at my face. After a few moments of quietly fuming over my predicament I found I was able to move just a fraction to relieve the pain in my shoulder, my eyes still shut, brain still in denial and refusing to look at the bedside clock, which we all know would simply be the end of any potential sleep. But then another issue soon became apparent.
Please let me be clear, I have had two children, I know, only two, but in all fairness, they were two large babies with very large heads. Since then I have become that person who before embarking on some great adventure has to make sure there is adequate toilet facilities. No loos, no adventure. The starfish will say, ‘go in the bush’ to which I reply ‘two large babies…’ Yep you guessed it my rebellious bladder had also awoken and was making itself known, painfully. I could have just gone to the loo. No, instead I tried to ignore the impending loss of dignity because if I had given in it would have required me to physically get out of bed, walk to the toilet, turn on a light, sit on a cold toilet seat and then that would be that. I would be awake. So I lay there pretending my shoulder was fine, my bladder was happy and that any minute now the hairy starfish would move. How wrong was I?
After what seemed like hours but was probably only seconds, with a sigh and a huff – the latter aimed at the large hairy starfish for being insensible to my predicament – I gently slid out of bed, (like a fat wobbly sea cucumber, keeping with the seaside theme). Tottered cross legged to the loo and with a clatter of the toilet lid, because some plonker had left the seat up, made it just in time. The relief was sublime. I also took the moment to work out the kink in the shoulder (multi-tasking is my game) with a groan or two.
Just as I was exiting the toilet I came face to face with one of the aforementioned children, now a fully-grown man-child. Who squinted at me and smiled that adorable half smile so reminiscent of the hairy starfish.
“What’s going on,” he asked.
“Needed the loo,” I said, thinking it was rather obvious.
There was a pause as his grin grew wider, “I’m sorry mum for breaking your vagina.” He gave me a half hug as we went our separate ways, him chuckling and heading to the fridge and me for once at a loss for words…and really rather awake.
One eye slowly opened and gazed out onto a
world barely recognisable.
Soon, whispered the wind.
word rolled around in his awakening mind.
Soon, whispered the wind.
morning bell jangled across the playground, children scattered to their
classrooms, some with an enthusiasm that can only come with being new to
school. Others saunter slowly; after
all, what’s the rush, school sucks…
Eventually, Tapuhi Primary settles into its morning routine. In room six Mrs Foster calls the role, ten
eager faces, arms and legs crossed, fighting the urge to fidget on the rough carpet
today we have some special visitors. As
you know all week we have been learning about the stories and traditions of Aotearoa.
Today we are going to learn about taniwha. Who can tell
me what a taniwha is?”
eager hands shot into the air.
Samantha?” Mrs Foster smiles.
“ A taniwha
is…a taniwha is a kinda’ monster, like a really big lizard that lives in
rivers and lakes and is really scary and likes to eat people!” The words came out in a rush, nine heads nod
knowingly in agreement.
you could say that, Samantha. But there
is much more to taniwha then just eating people and being scary. After morning tea we will be having a visit
from The Aunties,” ten little hearts leapt into ten little mouths – The
had heard of The Aunties, most were related to them in some way; everyone
listened when they spoke and did as they were told. Except old Dave who ran the only garage for
miles around, but then he was scarier than The Aunties. The arguments between old Dave and The
Aunties were the stuff legends in themselves.
Never mind the taniwha!
morning flew by quickly. Morning tea
came and went in a flurry of biscuit crumbs and half eaten fruit. As the children rushed back into class The
Aunties were already there greeting each child by name. The result was instantaneous, the children
silently taking their places on the story mat and Mrs Foster briefly wondered
if there was any way of bottling that effect…
please welcome The Aunties to room six.”
Ora Aunties,” said room six in a sing song unison.
Ora children, thank you for having us here today. Mrs Foster has asked to come and tell you
about taniwha and we are happy to do this but first you need to tell us what
you know about taniwha,” said the Auntie in the middle.
uncomfortable silence ensued as the children looked everywhere except at the
Aunties. Speak to the Aunties? Who were they kidding? The slow tick-tock of the clock could be
heard as the Aunties sat watching the children, waiting patiently, still as
stone, their eyes missing nothing and just as Mrs Foster was just about to fill
the silence a tentative hand reached up.
you Wiremu, what can you tell The Aunties about taniwha,” said a very relieved
Mrs Foster. There had been some raised
eyebrows in the staffroom when she had talked about asking The Aunties to
taniwha were creatures that lived near water and ate people?” said Wiremu
hesitantly remembering what Samantha had said earlier in the day, “and my dad
said they’re not real, just stories to scare people,” Wiremu finished quickly.
Aunties exchanged a quiet look, once more the middle Auntie spoke, “yes, sometimes
that is correct, the stories do sometimes tell of taniwha that eat people but
they also tell of taniwha who protected people too. Like the taniwha Tuhirangi who was Kupe’s
guardian and protected the canoes that crossed the Cook Strait or the taniwha
Pane-iraira who took the form of a whale and swam with the Tainui canoe from
they don’t eat people?” piped up Wiremu, his curiosity getting the better of
yes some do. The taniwha Tutaeporoporo he
would travel up and down the river eating people, in revenge for being badly
treated by the chief of that time.”
still eating people?”
the great warrior and taniwha slayer Ao-kehu killed him.”
hid inside a hollow log…” Wiremu who was now thoroughly entranced began to
speak again, stopping abruptly when the Auntie held up her hand…“He hid
inside a hollow log, the taniwha smelt him and ate the log whole. But, Ao-kehu was clever and had taken with
him an axe which he used to chop first through the log and then through the
taniwha eventually killing him. Inside
the stomach of the taniwha they found two hundred of his victims”.
went a collective noise from room six as they settled in for more.
hour and half between morning tea and lunch sped by as the children were held
enthralled by stories of taniwha, the good and the bad. There were taniwha who could shape shift,
there were taniwha who were sharks, whales, dolphins and giant reptiles and
even some who were enchanted logs or rakau tipua. There was some disbelief at the last but the
Aunties told the story of Humuhumu the guardian of the Ngati Whatua in the
Kaipara, he was a totara log drifting in a lagoon near the harbour.
how do you know it’s a taniwha and not just some rotten old log?” Nine pairs of
eyes widened in alarm – questioning the Aunties knowledge? Unheard of!
three ageless women exchanged glances, “because Wiremu Collins, the log moved
against the current and if it was not a taniwha how could it do that?” Faced
with three pairs of eyebrows raised in a silent challenge, a red faced Wiremu
had no answer.
sitting on the hard asphalt of the playground eating warm sandwiches Wiremu’s
mind began to wander, thoughts of taniwha filling his young head.
go hunting for taniwha for real!” Wiremu’s words came out of the blue, as soon
as he said it he knew it to be a good idea.
His mates looked at him, shook their heads and carried on eating their
“After school, we head down to the bush and
follow the track along the river. I bet
there is a taniwha down there somewhere.
We can pretend we are like the brave warriors from the olden days, it’ll
Wiremu, what if we actually find one?” piped up one of the group.
smiled, “It’ll be ok, remember what the Aunties said, not all taniwha are bad eh?
And anyway Dad said they’re not real, just stories, come on…it’ll be awesome!” Wiremu’s enthusiasm was infectious and soon
there was mass showing of hands.
decision made there was no going back and Wiremu felt his insides clench, part
of him wanted to know what he was going to do if he actually found a taniwha
and another part of him told him not to be stupid they were never going to find
a taniwha because they were just stories – not real just like his dad said.
afternoon as the going home bell jangled across the school, messages were sent
home via brothers, sisters and cousins. Walking
out the school gates several curious adult eyes followed them, some smiled to
see the kids off on an adventure, better then wasting time playing video games
or watching the box.
sun filtered through the canopy, a bossy fantail followed them along the path
flitting from tree to tree, grumpy at being disturbed. The gurgle of the river calling them down the
track to their destination.
You’re the boss which way do we go? Up or down?” Asked one of the would-be taniwha hunters once
they arrived at the river.
looked up the river and then down, he had no idea. He closed his eyes. At first all he could hear was the rush of
the river, the wind in the tree tops and the calls of a tui, but then slowly he
heard it, thump, thump. A quiet heartbeat, he turned his head one way
and then another – thump, thump. Wiremu’s eyes flew open and walked off up
river, the others scrambling to keep up.
wait!” yelled one of the others, but Wiremu had heard something and without
stopping to think his feet followed the sound that resonated up through his
little legs began to ache and puku’s rumbled as Wiremu’s relentless pace
continued. When the path became little
more than a goat track, the merry band of would be warriors mutinied. Wiremu however, was deaf to their pleas, his
head filled with the stories of brave and clever warriors, the thump, thump, beneath his feet calling
“Wiremu! Stop!” they shouted, to no avail. This adventure was no longer fun.
on lets go back, Wiremu will be fine, it’s not like he’ll actually find a
taniwha,” one of the others spoke up.
bush fringing the creek was dense and yet Wiremu carried on, unable to stop no
matter how hard the bush tried to stop him.
Somewhere along the way he lost a shoe, kicking the other off when he
realised. The sharp stones on his bare
feet not slowing him. He knew he was
Thump, thump, thump…
the bush stopped getting in his way and a smooth path opened up before
him. Wiremu’s feet stopped moving forward,
his mind cleared and looking around for the first time he was suddenly very
aware. He was alone in the middle of the
bush, probably miles from anywhere. Where did everyone go? His brothers had always said he was a dick. Wiremu’s heart leapt in panic.
behind him he saw the dense bush and wondered how he had gotten through in the
first place. In front of him lay an easy
path, smooth, wide and gentle on young feet.
wasn’t long before the path came to an end at the edge of a deep dark pool, the
perfect place to find a taniwha. Wiremu
shivered. The bush eerily silent,
waiting, expecting. Wiremu stood at the
edge of the pool, his toes touching the cool water. Looking at his reflection, he saw himself, a
small scared boy, his chest heaving.
It is time.
Do taniwha eat people? Some do, some don’t
words of the Aunties echoed around Wiremu’s head. How
wrong was my dad, he thought as he watched mesmerised as the still pool began
to churn. The ground beneath his feet
shook slightly, belatedly he realised that his brothers were right, he was a
dick. I am a dick for thinking I could hunt taniwha, I am a dick for not
taking the stories of my whanau seriously and now I am a dick because I am
about to be eaten by one of those stories.
rancid breath of the taniwha tickled the back of Wiremu’s neck, inviting him to
turn around. Wiremu stood still as a
stone gazing in terror at his reflection churning at his feet.
Turn, would be warrior, turn and gaze upon
me, it is time.
heart almost stopped. Time for what?
iridescent blue of a kingfisher fluttered past settling on a branch hanging over
the pool. The kingfisher and Wiremu looked at each other, wisdom and knowledge
in its small beady eyes, hope. Words
filled Wiremu’s mind.
Ina te rua taniwha!
Pute ona karu
Murara te ohi!
Tau mai te po
Takina te whakaihi
Ki Rarohenga rawa iho
Moe ate Po
Te Po riro atu ai e!
Wiremu stumbled over the words, nothing happened, the
pool still churned, he could almost feel the lick of a tongue. The kingfisher
looked at him head cocked to one side, try
again Wiremu, you can do better.
Deep breath, his eyes fixed on the bright blue bird, he repeated the
words again, stronger, louder. As he
finished, the churning pool subsided, the warmth at his back eased. Wiremu began to breathe once more.
The kingfisher flew to another branch, Wiremu’s eyes
followed. There, below the kingfisher a
stepping stone path to the other side of the pool. He didn’t need to be told twice, crossing
quickly with wings on his feet he scrambled up the bank on the far side of the
pool. As he reached the top, he glanced
over his shoulder amazed that all was still and quiet again. It could have been a dream, but it
wasn’t. With a shudder he turned his
back on the dark pool – time to go home.
Three ageless ladies stood watching, silent witnesses. The words of the karakia still echoed around
the pool. Today had been a close
call. They had seen it in his face at
the school. He was the one. But not on this day.
The silence was constant,
the darkness absolute but at least it was comfortable. Of course, that was not completely true. Sometimes there would be noise and light but
only on rare occasions. This was one of
those occasions. At first it was only a
muffled clipping noise could be heard, plastic heels on a hard linoleum
floor. As the minutes ticked by the
noise got louder until it stopped, so close.
They had heard the noise before, anticipation hung in the still air or
perhaps it was just the dust motes waiting for something to disturb the
stillness so that they at least could continue to be what they were, to do what
they were meant to do – float lazily around finding surfaces to decorate.
Now a loud clicking as
the tumblers in the old lock turned, a breath then a snap, crackle and
pop. The ancient and rarely used fluorescent
lights shuddered on, illuminating row after row of metal shelves filled to the
ceiling with anonymous brown boxes. Each
box was numbered and some of the older ones even had labels, browning around
the edges, peeling, faded but labels all the same. Testimony, that someone had once cared.
From its cushioned
interior the broken pot waited, perhaps this time it would be chosen. Broken it may be but it still had a story to
At first a lump of cold,
dull clay, providing inspiration for a human mind. Worked and moulded by human hands, its
exterior carefully smoothed and decorated.
Then from the hot fire like a phoenix it came. The incised decorations had meaning, told
their own story of the people who made it.
Its beauty admired, given as a gift from an aunt to a niece and filled
with grain. Beautiful and practical,
that was its story. It was valued
passing from mother to daughter until a day of violence, rough voices and
screaming. In the aftermath the pot lay
broken on the hard-earthen floor, broken into many pieces, its precious
contents spilt out. The crackle and spit
of the burning building heralding the end of an era but not the end of the story.
Buried, for what seemed
like an eternity. The only company the ever-present
earthworms and the occasional mole. Scratching and burrowing, moving away parts
of the whole so that even now safe in the brown box, it was not complete. Then came the day when the light returned,
once more human hands held it, reverently, exclaiming over its beauty. Carefully washing away the dirt that had
accumulated over the centuries, it was drawn, measured and photographed. Then carefully, oh so carefully, a new home was
made for all its broken parts.
At first many hands held
it, admired it, there were more drawings and more photographs but gradually the
visits into the light became fewer and fewer as the next best thing came
along. It had been a long time since it had
felt the warmth of human hands gently caressing the incised decoration that had
its own story. Perhaps today would be
the day. If it had a voice it would have
cried out “pick me, pick me” not unlike so many of the other artefacts sitting
comfortably in their specially cut foam in their anonymous brown boxes. Each had story to tell of a time when they
were useful and valued, even broken and buried over centuries their stories had
“Pick me, pick me” said
Standing still at the
doorway to the storeroom the woman took a deep breath. Smiling she wondered where best to start. Her boss had simply said “choose the ones
with the best stories”. But how do you
choose a good story? What is a good
story? With a small satisfied sigh, she looked
at her tablet with its inventory, deciding to simply start with the artefacts
that appealed to her personally. Hoping
on some instinctive level she would choose the ones with the ‘best stories.
Although there was a
certain amount of pressure to pick the right artefacts this was a job she had
been looking forward to for quite some time.
Finally, a legitimate opportunity for a good rummage in one of the
museums oldest storerooms and a chance to prove she was good at her job. A job she loved. If she were a person of a certain disposition
she would have done a little jig, as it was she simply contented herself with
humming her favourite tune.
Running her fingers
lightly along the brown boxes she did a slow circuit of the room, soaking up
the slightly musty atmosphere. There was
no real order to the space except in a numerical fashion. Each box numbered according to when it
arrived in the room, so that Mesolithic flints sat happily beside early medieval
pottery sherds. She did briefly wonder
if there was analogy for the modern world there. Either way, here she felt at home, to her
each and every one of these artefacts had a good story to tell. Put them together and their story would be…mind
blowing? No, wrong word, it would
be…enlightening. Smiling and humming
she went in search of a trolley.
After an hour she had half
a dozen boxes on the trolley, so far so good she thought as she sat on the desk
at the end of the room. There were a few errant boxes that for reasons known
only to themselves had moved to other locations in the room other than their
designated spot. Perseverance had paid
off in those cases. It had been a risk coming
here, her choices were risky too. This
was not the only storeroom there were others with brighter, better and more well-known
artefacts stored in them, safer choices, but better stories?
Perusing the inventory,
the woman waited for something to jump out at her. What she needed for this part of the
exhibition was an object that grabbed people’s attention, an item to stop and
wonder at, what else is hidden away in the bowels of their museum? Page after page she flicks through, finally
at the bottom of the very last page a hastily added note. The last few boxes to come into the room, containing
artefacts from a small, local society training dig. The enthusiastic amateurs had come across an
ancient settlement but a lack of funding had kept the dig to a single trench, two
metres wide and five metres long. Even
so, several of the finds had been remarkable, telling a story of settlement in
use for many generations and its eventual but violent demise.
Feeling her heart beat
quicken the woman began to count boxes searching, hoping that no one had moved
them. The sound of her heels clicking a
beat along the rows, up, down, pause, up, down, pause. Damn!
They weren’t there. Hands on her
hips, frowning, her eyes focussing on the boxes that were not the boxes she was
looking for. Taking a step back she
scans around, sometimes they were simply a little bit in the wrong place, but
no not this time. If she were of a
particular disposition she would have stamped her foot in frustration not once
but twice, instead though she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Logic dictated that she
should check who had last looked at the boxes, there might be some indication
as to where were now. Walking back to
the desk where she had left the tablet with its inventory she spied a row of
four brown boxes sitting innocently on the desk she had only moments before been
sitting on. Her pace quickened, please
let it be them she prayed to no one god in particular. If she were of a particular disposition she
would have ran and slid to a halt at the table, but she was not and she still
got there in good time. A quick glance
at the numbers on the outside of the box confirmed it, yes it was them.
As she lifted the lids on
each of the boxes, once more she said a silent prayer of thanks. The contents of all four boxes would be her
centrepiece, they told a real story, a story to resonate through the ages. The woman placed the boxes on the trolley,
satisfied. Her heels once more clicking
sedately on the linoleum floor, a creak of the door, snap as the fluorescents
flicker off, bang, the door shuts once more on darkness. The dust motes swirled about in the air
eddies left by the woman’s presence. A
comfortable constant silence reigns – until next time.
Slam, went the car
door. Two bodies wrapped up against the
weather, one tall, one small make a mad dash for cover under the museum’s
portico. Stopping to catch their breath
the small one links hands with the tall one. There were a lot of people milling
under the portico and mum had said very clearly, ‘do not lose your dad, after
all, he can’t even find his way out of a paper bag’. The boy wasn’t really sure what his dad would
have been doing in a paper bag. He
shrugs to himself, grown-ups!
Rain and school holidays,
not a good time to come to the museum but today was his only day off work and he
had promised his son that he would bring him.
He had no idea why he actually agreed, he would have much rather chewed
off his own leg than come to the museum.
But there was something about the look the boy’s mother had given him
and then there was the boy…equal portions of guilt and love tumbled through
his consciousness and he found himself agreeing. She had pulled him aside, “he loves the
museum, and it’s soothing…when he is there he almost like any other kid, stay
as long as you can”.
As they walked through
the doors, father and son turned and looked at each other.
“Well, you know it best,
where to first?”
The boy smiled, twirling
around eyes closed, mentally communicating with the museum, where to
first? He stopped, opened his eyes and
pointed. Following the pointed finger,
he spies the new exhibition hall and yes as luck would have it there was a new
exhibition. A display of previously
unseen objects from the museum’s storerooms, well fair enough at least it
wouldn’t be the same old things although he did fear that was yet to come. There was a tugging at the end of his arm;
the boy was itching to go. His mother
was right he did almost seem like any other kid here.
Kids, no one tells you no
matter what you think will happen, no matter how prepared you are, it is
nothing like what actually happens. He
had been so excited knowing he was to have a son, he had imagined footy games,
cricket on the beach, surfing, building tree houses and boisterous games of
tag. What he had got was an entirely
different kettle of fish. It wasn’t that
he didn’t love him his heart had almost burst when he first held him in his
arms. It was just that things had not
quite turned out as expected and in the beginning the readjustment had taken
awhile, it had taken too long for his wife, the boy’s mother.
The boy tugged again on
his dad’s hand, come on, imagine the treasures in here he tried to say. He looked up at his dad, his lopsided grin
bigger than ever. He loved the museum,
he loved the way it smelled, the way it sounded, the way the objects would
speak to him, tell him their stories. He
could spend hours with his nose pressed up against the glass cases just staring
and imagining. His mum always told him
that no matter what he would always have his imagination, the endless stories
he wrote were testimony to that. She had
packed his journal and brand-new pack of pencils in his backpack, “just in case
the mood takes you”, she had said with a wink.
As they wandered around
the new exhibition they saw stuffed animals in scary poses, shiny beetles and
beautiful butterflies pinned very carefully to a board, everything was named
(common and Latin), everything creatively displayed. Each display had an information board with
their stories. Many of the stories were
about where the animal had come from, who had found it and the hardships that
were undertaken in the name of science.
The boy wasn’t that impressed, again he decided it must be a grown-up
thing, killing something in the name of science, it was not a part of the
museum he liked much. But although just
a kid he understood that you didn’t need to like everything about something or
someone in order to love it – no one was perfect.
He tugged on his dad’s
hand again, something was calling him forward.
It was the archaeology section, now this was more like it. His soul sang for this was his nirvana. Here artefacts spoke of human lives, told
their stories, here he could lose himself totally. He moved quickly from case to case his dad
trailing dutifully behind him.
“Slow down kiddo, we have
all the time in the world.”
The boy came to a
complete halt in front of a case displaying a beautiful blackened pot, its
swirly incised decoration speaking to him.
There were other artefacts, bronze clothes pins, other pieces of pottery,
part of an iron skillet and an iron knife blade, both rusted but still
identifiable, jet beads lovingly set into a shape of necklace. The board said that they all came from the
same excavation, not far from where the boy lived with his mother. It was exciting to know that under his feet
as he walked around his town there could be more stories waiting to be
discovered. He looked at his dad, who
was just smiling at him in a funny kind of way.
“Go on, your mum said she
had packed your journal, it’s okay. I
like to watch you write your stories, I’ll just be over here keeping an eye on
The boys grin said it
She had drawn the short
straw, the volunteer who was rostered on to look after this section answering
the public’s questions had called in sick, a migraine or something. So here she was, she didn’t really mind, she
liked to see people interact with the artefacts. The boy and his father had intrigued
They were in a world of
their own, the boy strangely silent. The
father seemed a little uncomfortable, he looked like he’d much rather be out
tackling the elements than in here. The
boy had sat down on the floor with his back leaning against the plinth, on his
lap was a book and in his hand a pencil, he leaned back eyes closed, obviously
deep in thought. Suddenly as if someone
had fired a starting gun his eyes flicked open and the pencil flew across the
page. Her eyes glanced at the father, he
was smiling, he had seen this before.
Father and son settled in, one watching the other, just being.
An hour later, the pencil
was put away. She was intrigued, her
feet moving of their own volition she walked over to the boy.
“Hello, I’m the curator
who put this section together. Do you
The boy nodded smiling
his lopsided smile. His dad hurried over
“he doesn’t speak but he does understand everything, just doesn’t talk” he
“But you like to write,
don’t you?” she asked, not fazed by his father’s explanation.
boy nodded again, a moment of silence stretched out and then he handed her the
journal. Taking the journal, she moved
to the bench the father had previously occupied, sat down and started to
read. Both father and son sat quietly
she had finished, she turned to look at the boy, “you have a rare talent, you
can see the story behind each artefact, I honestly can say I felt like I was
transported back in time. Thank you. You are a very clever young man.” It was a truth, not words to bolster a child’s
would love you to come back another day, so I can show you some of the other
artefacts in storerooms and you can write more stories. Perhaps we can convince the museum to publish
some of them. People need to hear your
the boy was of a particular disposition he did do a jig, his joy obvious to all. His father felt a lump in his throat and not
trusting himself to speak just smiled and nodded his thanks. She handed over her card and got his details
too – she knew a good story when she saw one.
It’s all about the story, we all have them tucked away inside, sometimes we tell ourselves, sometimes we tell others. They are in everything and everyone we touch. Some are short lived and some will resonate through time but in the end, it is our story and how it ends is up to us.