Writing on a Prompt – A futile effort

Writing on a Prompt – A futile effort

Welcome to my dream world. A world of ordinary. A world of bizarre. In the case of some dreams, a world of utter nonsense and confusion. 

My dreams are not limited to nighttime. They occur wherever and whenever they feel like it. 

For example, right now. Do you think I am sitting here writing a piece on nurturing in front of my computer? I am, but I am not sitting in front of my laptop as I do this. I am inside the womb of an expectant mother. Here I am, all curled up with a tube feeding me nourishment, providing blood, and feeding me genetic material to help define what I will look like. 

Wait a minute; I just received a genetic trait that will make my nose big. I think I’ll give my mom a good kick to let her know I don’t like that trait and want her to take it back. What’s that? She likes being kicked; she is letting others feel me kick her. Just wait until I get out of here. I bet she won’t be too pleased when I kick her then. That’ll surely nurture her a lot. 

As I said, welcome to my dream world. This was probably different from what you expected for a writing piece on nurturing. Some people say that I’m creative. Personally, it’s not me. I think my mind has a mind of its own. 

I wish I had a way to nurture my mind to be creative and do what I want it to do instead of having it go off on its own and give me stories that make me seem weird. 

What I need is a dream manager. One that I can control and direct to create the stories I want to write and share. I also want one with a better filing system. Those nighttime dreams with great ideas always seem to disappear when I wake up; if you’re going to create all of these fantasies, at least set up a database that can store, sort, and retrieve them.

But that is my dream world, interacting with my real world again. Actually, I am sitting at my computer trying to write a piece about nurturing. Who knew? 

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Leave me alone!

Leave me alone!

“I want to be left alone. I want to be left alone! Don’t bother me!” 

These are words that Charles continued to say each time there was a knock on his door. But was he left alone? No.

If he was at home, it was a mother or his sister. They always wanted to have him do something. Or they always gave him some misguided advice. 

“You need to make friends.” 

“You need to do something that helps us around the house.”

“You need to stop being so selfish.”

Then when he went to school, it was the same thing. Only this time, he was in a room filled with people. And the knock at the door was usually to allow someone to enter the classroom. And he didn’t want to be there. He was convinced they were coming to the room to see him, even when they said differently.

“I just want to be left alone!”

It reached a point where the school, and his family, had no choice, and they referred him for counseling. 

This didn’t help at first, for it was just another person that wanted to get into his head. But then the counselor tried a radical new approach. Whenever Charles came into the room for a session, the counselor welcomed him and then left him alone in the room for the hour he was scheduled for.  The only difference was that the counselor left a kitten in the room with him. 

That kitten was one of a pair of identical kittens, the other being one that his family allowed him to keep in his room.

At first, Charles stayed in the room and did nothing, but eventually, he began to focus on the kittens. And he began to talk to the kittens.   

Charles knew he was being recorded, but he was still alone, which was important to him. And the more he shared with the kittens, the more everyone learned about what was going on in Charles’ mind. 

Charles revealed his fear of being different. His fear of others’ opinions of him. And the kittens just listened. In fact, the kittens comforted him. They purred when he touched them and chose to play with him unconditionally. They expected nothing from him but companionship and love. And that is what he gave them. 

Understanding this, his family, counselor, and classmates changed their behavior instead of asking Charles to change his. 

As time moved forward, so did Charles’s reactions to everyone. Over time, he changed also. 

As kittens grow into cats, Charles grew as a person. Yes, he still liked being alone at times, but now he functioned better with others with a mutual understanding that one can be different and still be accepted. 

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Added Voices

Added Voices

There is not an animal that I won’t give voice to. When I was in Junior High School, the path I took, walking to school, always passed by this squirrel. I nicknamed him Rod. We would have conversations every time we passed each other. 

I would say “Hi” and ask him how his day was going, and in my head, he would respond. Our conversations were short since he never was one to chat very much, and he was much too busy to stop and spend any more time with me than necessary. I also had to be on time for school.

This behavior of mine continues to this day.  When I was young, the conversations were one-sided from outside observers’ points of view since all squirrel voices were in my head. As a grown-up, I have no inhibitions to verbalizing what any animal I’m interacting with is saying or thinking when other people are around.

We feed two feral cats, Thunder Snow and Kid Thunder. They at least stick around for lengthier talks, though Thunder Snow has never uttered a sound in the six years we’ve been feeding him. Kid Thunder at least meows periodically. It doesn’t stop me from saying what’s happening in their heads.

Wild animals, like deer, countless birds, and even bugs, have shared their thoughts through my voice. 

I find that interacting with animals through my voice and having conversations about life, in general, is very comforting. It calms me down. It also helps my creative juices flow as a writer and a storyteller. 

So if you happen to pass by me and it looks like I’m talking to myself out loud, you might want to look around the area or where my eyes are focused, for chances are there is something out there that I am talking with. If you’re unsure, ask the tree I’m standing next to. I’m sure it’ll tell you who or what I’m conversing with. It might even suggest that you join in. 

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The answer is NO!

This week’s writing was based on a picture prompt. Here’s the picture –

Here’s the song:

The Answer is NO! ©2023

Can I feed you some peas?

The answer is NO!

Can I give you some cheese?

The answer’s still NO!

What if we play a game and fly this spoon of food into your mouth?

Your answer is NO! A definite NO!

 

It’s time for a nap.

The answer is NO!

Shall we have a bath?

The answer’s still NO!

What if I dress you up and we can go to visit one of your friends?

Your answer is NO! A definite NO!

 

For, every time I ask to help you do something with me

Your answer’s in the negative; you claim, “I’m almost three!”

You say that you are old enough and almost fully grown

And you do not need any help.  You’ll do it on your own.

 

Let’s go read a book.

The answer is NO!

Let’s go for a walk.

The answer’s still NO!

What if I pick a toy I know you like so you can play with me?

Your answer is NO! A definite NO!

 

For, every time I ask to help you do something with me

Your answer’s in the negative; you claim, “I’m almost three!”

You say that you are old enough and almost fully grown

And you do not need any help.  You’ll do it on your own

 

So I’ll let you choose

What you want to eat

Clothes you want to wear

Who washes your feet

I give you choices now; I see you smile; you answer with a “Yes!”

I get what you want; I don’t have to guess.

 

So parents out there, hear me out, a lesson you can learn.

Don’t make your kids do all you say; sometimes give them a turn.

Provide them with some choices; let them choose not to make war.

And maybe we all will survive until they’re almost four.

 

The Answer is NO! © 2023 by Harvey Heilbrun is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0. To view a copy of this license, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/

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An Experiment Gone Awry

An Experiment Gone Awry

 

How did I get here? That’s a good question. Usually, when I went up on the roof (better known as tar beach), it was with family members to escape the oppressive summer heat in our air-conditionless apartment. You can read more about that here: https://www.hdhstory.net/Storyblog/?p=3175

However, on this occasion, it was different.

I was at home playing with my friend Ronald when the thunderstorm hit. My parents weren’t home. My dad was at work, and my mother was visiting a friend up the street. 

Ronald suggested we try an experiment, as we were rather bored with what we were playing. We had been studying Benjamin Franklin in school, and Ronald suggested we try to do his kite experiment on the roof. 

I was very skeptical. Flying a kite on the roof? Rain and thunder? Lightning? It didn’t sound very safe. 

Ronald said, “We’ll wear raincoats and rubber boots. That should protect us.”

Before I could reply, he continued, “What could possibly go wrong?”

A voice in my head said, “A LOT!” But do I listen to the voice in my head when it comes to Ronald, and what sounds like a fun thing to do? No. Besides, rubber boots and rainwear seemed safe.

So we gathered a kite that I had, our raingear, and headed for the roof on the 11th floor of my apartment building. 

The door was pretty heavy to open, but it opened. We went onto the roof and propped the door open with a brick so it wouldn’t close. Once closed, you could only open the door from the inside.

It was raining lightly, but we could see the lightning off in the distance. Our first problem was figuring out how we would fly a kite in the rain. There certainly was wind, but as the rain started coming down harder, it did not seem that getting a kite airborne was possible. We also forgot a key to tie onto the kite string, which we needed according to the picture of Franklin’s experiment. 

I thought we should give up when Ronald had another idea. The roof was already higher than the surrounding trees, and attached to the roof were antennae, which like a key, were both made of metal. He suggested we, meaning me, just tie the kite to the highest antenna and then pretend it was flying in the air.

I was about to explain why that might be difficult when he said, “Wait here. I’ll go down and get a step ladder from your apartment.” The next thing I knew, he darted through the door down the stairs to my apartment. 

There were a number of problems that his leaving created. One, he kicked the brick loose we had used to prop the door open on his way through the door. The door slammed shut and locked. I was now trapped on the roof, at least until Ronald returned. 

The next problem was I had forgotten to take the key to the apartment with me, which we could have used for the experiment, but it was still in the apartment, which was locked, and Ronald didn’t have the key either. Would he come right back to me? Or would he go to his house, about 10 minutes away, to get a step ladder?

And finally, that lightning was getting closer, and I was surrounded by a number of metal antennae grounded on the roof that I was standing on. 

 

So that’s how I got here.

 

As luck would have it, my mother was just getting home as Ronald was running down the hall away from my apartment, apparently trying to save me, which he told my mother. I learned later on that he actually was running home to his house, but he didn’t think it was a good idea to tell my mom that. Not telling her that was probably the best idea he’s ever had. 

Meanwhile, I was standing in the pouring rain, lightning flashing in the sky overhead, holding a kite in my hand near the door, ready to yell at Ronald for leaving me, as the door opened to the roof. 

Unfortunately for me, it was not Ronald standing at the open door. And the only yelling that occurred came from the woman towering over me, pointing a finger toward the stairs that led off the roof and down towards our apartment. I’m not sure what she said with her eyes ablaze and her voice drowned out by the thunder. But I’m pretty sure the entire apartment building heard every word. 

The end result was Ronald being sent home and banned from coming to our house whenever I was alone. My punishment was an extended period of time confined to my room, where I had to read and report on a book my father brought home from the library on his way back from work that day about the dangers of playing with electricity. 

And that’s the absolute truth. Or if it isn’t, it should be.

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When I was your age…

When I was your age…

The gray-haired woman sat on a bench at a local park in the Bronx. She watched as the boys and girls played in the park. The year was 1956. A young boy, about six years old, stops to pick up a ball that he has thrown, looks at the woman, and smiles. 

The woman smiles back. “What’s that you’re playing with?” she asks.

“It’s my own spaldeen,” he answered. “I just got it today; it cost me 25 cents.”

The woman chuckled. “Did you know that when I was a child, I could buy two loaves of bread for less than that?”

The boy looked at the woman in astonishment. “How old are you?” he asked.

She furrowed her brow and cocked her head as if to be thinking. “Let’s see now,” she said. “I was born in 1905. I guess that would make me 51 years old.”

“Wow,” was the boy’s reaction. “You’re old!”

“Well, not that old,” she replied. “Would you like to know what life was like when I was your age?”

“Sure.” the inquisitive boy said as he sat on the bench next to the old woman. 

“First of all, when I was your age, I didn’t live in this country. I lived in a country called Germany, which is far, far away, across a great ocean. My father ran a haberdashery which is another word for clothing store, and my mother stayed home to take care of her six children.”

“Did you go to school? I’m in first grade.” the boy asked.

“Sure, I went to school. I went to a small wooden schoolhouse. There were 14 of us in my class, five boys and nine girls. The headmaster, my teacher, was well dressed, serious-minded person. If we did anything wrong, well, he would sometimes rap us on the back of our hands with a ruler. ” 

“Did it hurt?”

“For a short time. I tried not to get in trouble, but it was kind of hard for me. I liked having fun.”

“What did you do for fun?”

“I mostly played with my friends. Of course, there was the one time I got in trouble for climbing on the roof of my house. Girls were not supposed to do that.”

Before he could ask another question, the boy heard his mother calling him to come home. He turned his head as he walked away and asked if he could hear more stories some other time. The gray-haired woman said, “Of course.”

 

————-

 

I went back to my old neighborhood about ten years ago. Things had changed.  The park we had played in as kids in the 50s and 60s was much smaller now. There were a lot more trees. There was grass on the ground and leaf litter instead of dirt. The sandbox was gone, but the brook was still there, as were some benches. I sat down on a bench, closed my eyes, and tried to remember what it was like when I was a kid. I was surprised when I opened my eyes to see the face of a small boy, probably about six or so, standing in front of me and staring at me. 

“Are you okay, mister?” was his question. 

I looked around to see other adults with children entering the park. One young woman approached the boy and said, “Don’t bother the man, Charley.”

I was quick to reply, “It’s no bother at all. I was just remembering what it was like way back then.”

Before the mother could say anything, her son piped up, “You’re old! What was it like when you lived here?”

I looked at the mother and asked her, “I’d love to tell you if it’s all right with your mom.”

I could see by the look in her eyes that not only was it all right, but she also wanted to know the answer.

So I began to share as they sat next to me on the bench. 

You see, we had a sandbox over there. That was second base when we played baseball. There used to be a rock over there that was third base and a tree over here that was first. That walking path leading up the hill between here and those rocks, well, that was what we used to ride down on our sleds when it snowed.” 

They never got tired of my stories of the olden days. It turns out the boy’s mother was a teacher, so I had a lot more stories to share with her. 

 

————

 

The year is 2075. A young man of 70 is strolling through an electronic playground in the Bronx. A small child bumps into him, wearing a pair of holographic goggles. (real old technology).

 They take the goggles off so they can see what they bumped into and are surprised to see this man standing in front of them. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t see you,” they say. They hold up their safety scanner, quickly identifying the person that they bumped into as a safe individual. “Why are you here?”

He replied, “I grew up here over 60 years ago when I was about your age. I was just thinking about what life was like back then.” 

The child scans the man again to make sure, then says, “I’ve never heard about that time from a real person. Can you tell me what it was like?”

And he did.

What did he share with that child?

———–

 I ask you readers: What kinds of things do you think are important and memorable to the kids growing up now in the 2020s that, when they get older, they will recall and share with the next generation? And how will that information be shared?

 

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The Power of Choice

The Power of Choice

She walked into the tent with a knowing glance. There he was beneath the blanket, waiting. But who was he waiting for?

He looked surprised to see her there, and he was scared. Try as he might, no matter how often he tried to evade her evil intents, she found him. What was he to do?

She was confident in her stance. The magic amulet she wore around her neck ensured she would have the power, not him. It was a time of reckoning. And this time, she would be victorious.

He was the king. He was the one who ruled the land. How did he let go this far? It was a little dalliance, as men of rank always have. The queen was not to know about it, and even if she did, it would be accepted for what it was. That was the way of the land. Little did he know the power and evil intent that this sorceress had. When the king discovered who she was, it was too late. She had already begun her spell.

Once the deed was accomplished, the witch knew that the kingdom would be hers to rule. Getting rid of the queen would be easy, and there were no heirs. The witch raised her wrinkled hands slowly and pointed one finger at the king. With a look of pure evil, she began to chant the spell that would kill the king.

The king covered himself up as well as he could. Fear was in his eyes, and dread filled his heart. He tried to close his eyes but couldn’t; they remained transfixed on the hand pointing at him.

To this bed…where you do lie
I call the spirit…that will make you die
With this last word, shall it be true
A realm for me, and death to…

Before she uttered the last word, there was a movement behind her that she did not see. The queen, who was not as naive as one would believe, standing behind the sorceress, thrust her hand on the chain around the sorceress’s neck and pulled it over the witch’s head. The queen put the amulet around her own neck, pointed her finger at the witch, and said the last word, “YOU!”

There was a scream, a crackling sound, and a flash of light as the evil sorceress collapsed and then disappeared, leaving only her clothes devoid of flesh and bone coated with ashes on the floor.

To say that the king and queen lived happily ever after. Well, I can’t attest to that. Suffice it to say that the king became much more devoted to his queen. After all, she had the amulet.

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Tell Me a Story

Tell Me a Story

The door opens, and I am looking into the eye of the mystic that I was directed to. Why, you may ask? Well, it all started when I woke up this morning.

I had been dreaming about being in a car. Dawn was approaching. As the sun began to rise, sunshine hit the front of the car I was in, and I was blinded, so I pulled off the road and stopped the car. I got out, and standing there was a woman. She stood about 5 foot 6 and had short blond hair and eyes that were vivid green. She stared straight at me. Her eyes were what attracted me, or should I say mesmerized me. 

She said only a few words. It was an address and a request that I go there. Then she turned and walked away. 

Under normal circumstances, I would mark her as a crazy lady or another one of my vivid dreams. But the look she gave me bewitched me. So when I woke up, well… here I am.

The mystic asked me to sit down. I then realized this mystic was the woman I had seen in my dreams. 

“I asked you here for a reason,” she said. “I am the gateway to any number of realms. And you are needed in one of them.”

Not knowing what she was talking about, I asked, “Why me? And what realm?”

Her answer was quick, ”Because it has been foretold, and it is the realm of Selat.”

This did not make it any clearer. “What do you mean….”

She stopped me before I could finish my question. “You are a bearer of tales, are you not? In Selat, all the stories that have existed have been stolen. Therefore it is your task to discover where they have been taken to and to bring them back. What has happened in Selat also threatens your world. Once stories are gone, there is no history, no learning from generation to generation; there is no true existence.”

I didn’t know how to respond, and she sensed that. So she said only one thing. 

“Just do it!”

And she disappeared, as did everything else around me. I found myself alone in an uninhabited village in this new realm called Selat.

Where to begin…?

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The Gift That Keeps On Giving

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

Storytelling at Briarcliff School – 3/2007

In 1981, an event occurred that changed the direction of my life, both in teaching and in retirement. I was asked by the previous school I had taught in if I was interested in becoming the lead actor in their Middle School musical production of “Hans Christian Andersen.”** 

That one play spurred me into the field of storytelling. Through research, which included a lot of reading and going to storytelling events, some even funded by my school district, I started to tell stories to others. It started in my class, then my school, then on to other venues, including some festivals. 

The more I learned, the greater my repertoire became, and the more I expanded the talents that I had. I loved it.

I loved the looks on the faces of my listeners, whether they were an audience of one at home or an entire crowd of people while I was on stage. 

I loved sharing folktales that were created by others and stories that I created myself. I loved the reactions that I got from the listeners when I ended my tellings. 

But the stories didn’t stop there. Listeners would come back to me the next day and tell me they shared my stories at home with their families. Years later, when siblings of one of those listeners heard me tell a story, some said, “Oh, my sister told me that story when I was younger.”

Mentioning a book or a story I’d shared with someone years ago still brings up characters from the story for them that they can name, that I’ve long forgotten. 

Just today, David, my child, who I read the book, Wolf Story more than 20 years ago, when I mentioned the title of the book, said, “Oh, that was the story about Rainbow the chicken.” And they were right!

A lot of times, when I ask ex-students of mine who are now in college or are adults, “What do you remember most about 5th grade?” the answer I get is a specific story I told or a song we sang in class. 

Good stories are remembered.

The gift that I enjoy giving and continue to give is the gift of story. It’s a very powerful gift. Watch anyone’s face when you start a sentence with, “That reminds me of a story.”  And as those stories continue to get shared by the people I tell them to, and they continue to share them, the gift keeps on giving. 

**If you wish to read more about my performance as Hans Christian Andersen in the Middle school play and its impact on me, here’s the link: https://www.hdhstory.net/Storyblog/?p=483 

 

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Just where are we going?

Just where are we going?

It’s bad enough that I have to sit in the back seat of the car, but why can’t he tell me where we are going? 

It was a quiet afternoon at home when I got a call from my friend, Ronald. He said that he had a great idea and that he would be by shortly to pick me up. 

“What’s up,” I asked. 

“Can’t tell you,” was his quick reply. “See you in a few.”

He arrived shortly afterward. When I opened the door, he took one look at me and said, “No, this will never do. You’ll have to change your clothes.”

“What? What do you mean I have to change clothes?”

“Just change them, and don’t ask so many questions. A good set of workout clothes would do best, and don’t wear your best sneakers.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. But Ronald was my trusted friend. What could possibly go wrong?

I put on some sweats, a sweatshirt I had purchased at the University bookstore, got my older pair of Reebok’s, and headed out to where Ronald was waiting. 

“Now get in the back of the car,” he demanded.

“Wh.?” I started to ask, but he just put his fingers to his lips to shush me and pointed to the back passenger seat.

So that’s how I got…well, I still don’t know where. We drove for about an hour.

The problem with sitting in the back seat is that you can’t see everything that the driver can see in the distance straight ahead. I guess that was Ronald’s plan. The only thing that I could discern was that we were driving steadily upwards. I also noticed that one side of the road was hills, and the other side of the road didn’t exist, and I saw no guard rails to prevent us from going off on that side of the road. 

I also noted that the roadway, which wasn’t paved very well, was now turning white due to the snow that had started to fall. I still had faith that Ronald knew what he was doing…I think. 

We finally reached a small plateau when Ronald stopped the car and told me to get out. 

Looking around, I saw the cliff we had just driven up, and ahead of us, there was a large mountainous rock formation that went up pretty high. The view was pretty impressive.

“Where are we?” I asked. “Are we here for the view? It’s really impressive.”

Ronald, again, was quick to reply. “Forget the view; we’ve got a mountain to climb!”

“Why would we do that? Have you ever climbed a mountain before?” I asked.

“A duh! If I hadn’t climbed before, would I have brought you up here?” was his reaction.

I’ve known Ronald to stretch the truth now and then, so I asked, “I mean, besides the rock climbing wall at the University Gym?”

“What’s the difference?” he retorted, “A rock is a rock, and I’ve never fallen off the wall yet.”

There comes a time in everyone’s life when they realize that something someone has suggested to them is so stupid that they don’t even consider doing it. Then there are times when bonds of friendship and trust make you do something so stupid that you lose all sense of logical choice. And I know you all are thinking that I’m going to make the wrong choice; after all, Ronald is my trusted friend. Well, in this instance, I was going to make the right choice…that was until Ronald left me and started climbing. 

With no safety line or any other climbing equipment, I scrambled up the side of the mountain as fast as I could in order to get ahead of Ronald and block his path, which I did. At the same moment, an official-looking car pulled up behind Ronald’s car, and in a loud official-sounding voice, its occupant made it quite clear that both of us were to get down immediately. Which we did. 

As it turns out, you actually need a permit to climb this mountainside, and you also need the proper equipment. My explanation to the Rangers that I was trying to stop Ronald from climbing didn’t hold any water with them since I was the one that was in the lead. Ronald, as was his penchant, said nothing to support me. 

We were escorted back down the mountain path to the Ranger station, where we were given a warning, and since we had not climbed too high before being caught, no fine was issued. 

Ronald sullenly drove me back home. And as far as I know, that should be the end of it. 

But then again, you all know Ronald. 

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