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A quote: “The more we’re governed by idiots and have no control over our destinies, the more we need to tell stories to each other about who we are, why we are, where we come from, and what might be possible. Or, what’s impossible? What’s a fantasy?” ~~ Alan Rickman
I’ll start with a story …
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I remember books with terrible stories of impossible feats. Hot summer days I would stretch out on shady grass, heart in my mouth as space ships chased across worlds or reluctant heroes rose to unexpected challenge.
I try to tell my grandchildren of those stories. But I need my books.
I’m gifted one of their devices, full of light and color. I delight to find my stories there, like old friends in new clothes. But now they frown at my reading. “Grandma, you can’t say that!”
Each day another story disappears from my device. Only I think that’s a problem.
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Now, it’s your turn.
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. featured image, cropped, Adobe Stock standard license
Eileen says: I think the first thing to hit my senses was the echo. The noise was almost secondary, but the echo still haunts me. I can feel it in my gut. I wanted to ask all the questions of why, how, and what, but none of those could explain the direction of my life. I guess this must be my new home to which the deputy has escorted me. Door opens, my sheet, new clothes and toothbrush and the door closes. The echo reaches my gut.
Iwoots says: “He’s doing it again!!” she complained.
“Who, what?” her male-identifying co-worker asked.
She replied “Captain Beatty. Talking about how we have it so easy! – “You young’uns just push a few buttons, and ‘Poof’ – no more Heinlein, Shakespeare, Bradbury……In my day we strapped on 70 pounds of flamethrower, and turned actual books into actual ash……” – I wish they would make all these old people just retire and go away!!!”
Seeing her co-worker turn ash-white, she was about to ask what was the matter; when two strong pronoun-defying Officers of the SSA (State Security Apparatchik) slammed her to the floor, handcuffed her, broke her jaw with a baton, and pronounced sentence “You are guilty of age-ist comments. Xwe sentence you to voluntarily serve 20 years in a Peoples’ Camp. Your silence is your consent.”
Navig8r says: New school. Lots different. They didn’t share any classes. Passing in the hall, she wasn’t like the other girls. Natural hair color, blouse rather than day-glow hair and a man’s shirt worn frump style. Glue-on nails. Real ones trimmed so she could be practical when necessary, refined when she wanted.
Now here she was at the church picnic, reading a real book, not buried in a screen. Turned out the economy had forced her folks off the farm into city jobs like it had his. He really missed the farm, but suddenly the future seemed a whole lot brighter.
Cameron says: I found her up on the hill and buried in another book. “This isn’t an effort to get out of your chores, is it?”
She set the book down and rolled her eyes at me. “No, dad. I already finished them.” She held the book up high. “This was from grandpa’s library. The reading list from school is so simple I wanted something better.”
“And that’s why you are a high school graduate at thirteen. All right; stay out here but lunch will be ready in an hour.”
We knew homeschooling was a good thing for her but we didn’t expect such good results.
“What children really want to read is realistic stories about children like themselves doing ordinary things and learning life lessons.” Mrs. Palmer said it with the stern authority that came from sitting at the big desk by the entrance to the library.
I could hear the unspoken unlike you, which is why they pick on you all the time. But if I objected to the implicit criticism, I’d be told I was taking it too personally, or worse, that I was imagining things and it was proof that I needed to be “brought down to earth” by having nothing to read but those dreary, boring stories about making friends and coping with bullies.
I wanted rockets to the Moon, knights in shining armor, a swift ship and a star to steer her by. But even the historical books about the Apollo moonshots had vanished over the summer, and when I’d asked, Mrs. Palmer had told me they were “dated,” and therefore had to go.
Dupin says: “I’m going outside.”
“Why?”
“To have an adventure.”
“Supper’s in three hours. Don’t be late.”
The screen door slamming was my answer. Finally done with chores, I was outta there. Hike down to the river, sandals off and wade, feeling the mud and sand squish between my toes. Then pick flowers to decorate the table at supper. Of course I had my book stashed in my bag to read. I set an alarm on my phone so I won’t be late.
To some this isn’t much of an adventure, but lying in the sun by the river reading, it’s mine.
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