When I was growing up, I always thought Gramps was eccentric and, well, a bit daft. He spoke softly in a strange, lilting tone. His actual words were a riddle to me.
One of the oddest things about Gramps was his building projects. He had turned his small farm in upstate New York into a medieval village. Not the entire village, just a few tiny thatched houses and other odds and ends. But the centerpiece was a full-sized ruined castle. There was just one wall with a pointed arch portal and a tall, narrow, crenelated tower remaining. I know it was newly built, but it looked ancient. I used to play make believe about goblins and elves and things every time we visited. I had so much fun playing around it.
Never in it, though.
I was told there was only one room that could be used, and it was Gramps’ private domain.
Trey was six, very unsteady with his paddling, the canoe out of control in the wind, his older brother, Jim, shouting at him. It was his first year at the lake staying in the small cabin where his dad had vacationed since he was a kid. It had been a little fishing get away for his dad and one of his friends. Two years ago Jim had made his first visit. This year it was his turn.
His brother’s nine year old voice yelling.
Trey was nine, reeling in a huge bass. The bass fought like the Dickens, but Trey had three years of experience now and could handle it. tell Dad, though. Even though he had caught hundreds of fish, but his dad still had to talk him through it, cheering him on.
His dad’s voice, full of care, instructing him on catching fish and living life.
Trey was eleven, climbing a small cliff that had the best view of the lake. It was his favorite spot in the world. This was the second year Mom had made the journey, it no longer being a “boys night out” fishing trip, but s full-fledged family vacation.
His mother’s voice, telling him the cliff was dangerous was thrown into the mix.
Trey was thirteen hidden in the deep woods, coughing on a stolen cigarette. Jim punched his arm, perhaps a little too hard.
The day was beautiful and the new park was just the answer to being locked inside for too long. Steven smiled down at his wide-eyed six-year-old, Trevor. It was good to see the boy so enthralled with nature after being forced indoors for so long.
And it was a perfect place for a boy, for the park had several semi-abstract life-sized sculptures of different exotic animals, both living, though in a different parts of the world, or long extinct.
“This is so lovely,” Carolyn said. She had been holding their son’s hand at first, but Trevor had escaped to explore on his own, though never out of sight or reach.
They turned a corner in the path to come face to face with a large, angular prehistoric beast.
“Look Dad, a dinosaur,” Trevor said.
The sculpture was so intriguing that Steven couldn’t take his eyes off of it to look at his son.
“No, Trevor, it’s a mammoth. They’re mammals and lived much later.”
“Are you sure it isn’t a mastodon?” Carolyn asked.
“No, Mom and Dad, a dinosaur. Look!”
Steven laughed to himself. A six-year-old boy should know all of this stuff, but the prehistoric elephantine was not a dinosaur.
He turned to talk to Trevor, but Trevor was looking in a different direction.
Steven followed his son’s glaze.
From behind the trees, following their path, a large T-Rex came into view.
It was not a sculpture. It was far too alive and far to big.
Steven turned and ran. The last thing he heard was, “See Dad, I told you it was a dinosaur.”
This was written for this week’s writephoto challenge. Sue is gone and missed, but before she left, she passed the baton for this challenge over to KL Caley. The photo at the top of the page was provided by KL, along with the key word “dinosaur“. Though I’m with the mom and dad here, it is most likely a mammoth, though possibly a mastodon ;)
Freder splashed his way through the stench of the workers’ subterranean street. Fresh from his pleasure garden two thousand feet above the ground, he felt suffocated being as far below that long-lost surface.
He never knew that the masses lived like this! Perhaps H. G. Wells was prophetic and humans were splitting into the leisure-class Eloi and working-class Morlocks.
Did his father know what the rule of his 1% did to those 99% who created that lavish lifestyle in the clouds?
He would find Maria, join he people.
“The Mediator Between the Head and the Hands Must Be the Heart.”
The photo made me think of an underground city, or a city’s underground. A poor area with the upper-class’ sewage running unchecked into the poor’s domain. Which led me to the movie Metropolis. Freder is the main character of the movie, with Maria the female lead. His father is the head of the elites and runs the city. She is from the poor worker’s city and is trying to find a way for the rich Capitalists and the poor Workers to get together. The last line of the story is the last line of the movie.
Perhaps the most frustrating issue with this book was the lack of characterization. Although the surface details were drawn with care, the characters themselves came out as flat. Flat, flat, flat, totally flat. You could not imagine an emotion more than a silly grin on any of them. Even the dog and cat seemed more archetypes of the species than real, live, breathing animals. I rate this book one star for lack of characterization alone. Not recommended.
Wow, that was pretty harsh. What was your book about?
It was children’s book that featured a family of gingerbread people… Totally flat.