When Thing and his parents
lived in the cave, it was their custom to paint pictures on the walls about
what they had done that day. The cave was covered with stories; some new, some
from many years before, and Thing would spend hours looking at them.
When Thing’s father left and
then his mother, Thing continued to paint the pictures on the wall, knowing
that someday they would return and see how he had spent his time.
Then one day - and Thing was
sure if it was because of the sadness that came to visit him from time to time
- he didn’t feel like painting on the wall anymore and so put away the brushes
for good.
Instead he found a little
animal that lived at the back of the cave and he told it all the stories of the
day he had just spent.
“And the teacher said that I
was the best in the class for listening,” and if the little animal was
interested or if it wasn’t, it was hard to tell as it scurried about the dark
parts of the cave looking for food.
Then one night, when the sun
was setting, and the little animal was nowhere to be found, Thing found a pen
and paper and started to write his stories down. Because he knew that when his
family returned he would be able to read those stories to them.
One day when Thing got home
he realised that nothing much had happened to him that particular day and he
wondered what he could write about. That was when thing decided to make a story
up in his head about a pretend day.
The story started ‘One
day…’, because Thing felt that was how all stories should start. It told of the
day that Thing came home from school and he found that his mother and father
were waiting on him. They hugged and held him and promised him that they would
never leave. Thing loved that story and decided to take it to school with him
so that he could read it when he was feeling sad.
At break, he sat in a quiet
corner where he would disturb no one and he took out his story that started
‘One day….’ and he read it all the way through. It was just as he was putting
the story away that it was snatched from his hands.
“Lookie here what weird kid
has written. Aw, he misses him Mom and Dad. Well ain’t that a shame,” and the
kid ran off with the story, laughing and joking.
Thing went to class and said
nothing. At the back of the room, two kids who had now got hold of Thing’s
story, were laughing and repeating some of the words that Thing had written.
The teacher went to find out
what was the source of all the noise and took the story from them. She returned
to her desk and read it.
“Does anyone know whose this
is?” Holding the paper up.
The boys pointed to Thing.
“This is really very good,
Thing, very good indeed. Come and see me at the end of the class. “
At the end of the lesson the
kids all left except for Thing, who assumed that he was to be punished for
writing a story.
“I think this is brilliant,
“ said the teacher. “And in future I should like to read any stories that you
have.”
Thing thanked the teacher. She asked if she could take it home to read again and then she held his hand
and said:
“I know those boys were
laughing at your story but it is only fear. They are scared of activities that
they can’t do themselves. There is bound to be some stuff that they can do,
that you can’t. That is life. However, just because people laugh or criticise
what you do, doesn’t mean that they are right and you are wrong; if everyone
did the same things, thought the same way - what a boring world it would be. As
long as there is one person who attempts or believes something different, then
that immediately means that there are at least two truths - they are not right
and you are not wrong. “
And with that, Thing walked
away happy and was already thinking of another story he would write that
evening.
bobby stevenson 2013
thoughtcontrol ltd
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