The twilight sun showered a golden ray across the old man’s wrinkled skin as he watched a rusty car sputter and cough into his driveway. Almost before the car stopped, the passenger doors were thrown open and a young boy and girl rushed out.
“Grandpa! Grandpa!” the two kids squealed as they ran toward the porch where the old man was standing, their tiny feet treading across the loose stone path that led up to the house. They reached the old man and he embraced them in a warm hug. A couple waved from the car and honked as they drove away, the little girl blowing kisses and the boy waving furiously yelling, “Bye mommy and daddy!”
“Grandpa!” the little girl said as she tugged on her grandfather’s trousers. “Tell us a story!”
“Oh yes! Please, please, please tell us one grandpa. And make it one we haven’t heard before,” the boy begged.
The old man’s expression turned very solemn as he took his grandchildren’s hands in his own and led them over to the wooden swing that hung on one side of the porch. He lifted the little girl and placed her on one end of the swing, and the boy hopped up on the other end. The old man set down his weathered wooden cane at the base of a large flower pot before he took his place between them.
The children were confused as to why their grandfather did not begin telling the story at once. Instead, he had his eyes gently closed, his chin pointing toward the setting sun and his breaths in a steady, even pattern. The old man’s features looked even older and more worn than normal. His shaky leather hands were tucked into relaxed fists and lay on his legs. The usually shallow creases in his face looked like canyons and his hair was as white as newly fallen snow.
“Once upon a time…,” he started, but the boy interrupted him.
“Grandpa, I don’t wanna hear a dumb fairytale. Those are for girls.” The old man ignored the boy and repeated himself.
“Once upon a time, there was a boy named Jimmy. He went to a school in Atlanta, Georgia, a long, long time ago, where he learned his sums and how to read and write. His favourite part of school though, was getting to play with the other boys and girls. They liked to play marbles, tag, and all other kinds of games together. But there was one kid, a boy named Marty, who never played with anyone. At recess, he liked to slowly walk around the playground, looking all around and pausing every once in a while. Sometimes he just sat in the grass and looked at the children using the swing set, watching as they soared higher and higher towards the sky. In class, he didn’t pay much attention, and our teacher always said to him ‘Marty, you need to get your head out of the clouds and into the books’. Then she would mumble to herself, ‘Yes, that boy is always dreamin’. Ain’t healthy. Won’t get hisself anywhere in this ‘ere world if he keeps it up’.”
At this part the old man paused. After a minute or two, he picked up the story again. “Marty wasn’t well liked by the other kids, so all throughout school he never had many friends. But that boy, that boy was always holding his head up high and somehow was smarter than all the other boys and girls. After he finished his schooling, he went off to college and we didn’t hear from him for a long time.”
The old man paused again, with the seeming intention of ending the story, but the little girl probed him. “What happened Grandpa? Please finish, I wanna hear what happens!” The old man gave a weak smile, and he ruffled her wind blown brunette hair.
“Then one day,” he said, “When Jimmy was much older and was raising a family, he turned on the TV after a hard day of work. That day was August 28, 1963, long before you two were born.” He gently beeped the children’s noses before continuing.
“And right there on TV, there was Marty, making a speech right in front of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC. He was talking about all his dreaming in front of a crowd of all kinds of people, and they were cheering at him. Our teacher had been wrong, he had made himself into a fine man with all his dreams. That boy used to walk down the street unnoticed and ignored and he grew into a man who was known worldwide. But if you saw this man today, you’d be looking into the eyes a ghost. The ghost of Martin Luther King, Jr.” By this time, the old man had been telling the story with a furious and grand momentum, and when he finished, silence dominated the air, muting the sounds of crickets composing their night symphony and the wind rushing through brambles and grass.
The girl looked down at her feet as he uttered the last words, and then she picked her head up. “Grandpa, is this story true?”
“As real as you and I. So dare to dream you two. Never be afraid of your dreams. They’ll take you higher than those swings.”
“Jimmy?!” an old lady yelled from a window inside the house. “You get those two children in here. I don’t care if it’s summer. Summer is almost over and it’s getting cold and dark!”
“Well, we better listen to grandma,” the old man laughed and pretended to shiver.
Once again, he took the two fragile hands within his own and led them into the house. The burnt sun had faded off the horizon, and the dim sky was beginning to grow stars. Before the little girl stepped over the threshold, she looked up at the starry sky. “Grandpa?” she asked. “I think dreams can take you over the stars too.”
“Grandpa! Grandpa!” the two kids squealed as they ran toward the porch where the old man was standing, their tiny feet treading across the loose stone path that led up to the house. They reached the old man and he embraced them in a warm hug. A couple waved from the car and honked as they drove away, the little girl blowing kisses and the boy waving furiously yelling, “Bye mommy and daddy!”
“Grandpa!” the little girl said as she tugged on her grandfather’s trousers. “Tell us a story!”
“Oh yes! Please, please, please tell us one grandpa. And make it one we haven’t heard before,” the boy begged.
The old man’s expression turned very solemn as he took his grandchildren’s hands in his own and led them over to the wooden swing that hung on one side of the porch. He lifted the little girl and placed her on one end of the swing, and the boy hopped up on the other end. The old man set down his weathered wooden cane at the base of a large flower pot before he took his place between them.
The children were confused as to why their grandfather did not begin telling the story at once. Instead, he had his eyes gently closed, his chin pointing toward the setting sun and his breaths in a steady, even pattern. The old man’s features looked even older and more worn than normal. His shaky leather hands were tucked into relaxed fists and lay on his legs. The usually shallow creases in his face looked like canyons and his hair was as white as newly fallen snow.
“Once upon a time…,” he started, but the boy interrupted him.
“Grandpa, I don’t wanna hear a dumb fairytale. Those are for girls.” The old man ignored the boy and repeated himself.
“Once upon a time, there was a boy named Jimmy. He went to a school in Atlanta, Georgia, a long, long time ago, where he learned his sums and how to read and write. His favourite part of school though, was getting to play with the other boys and girls. They liked to play marbles, tag, and all other kinds of games together. But there was one kid, a boy named Marty, who never played with anyone. At recess, he liked to slowly walk around the playground, looking all around and pausing every once in a while. Sometimes he just sat in the grass and looked at the children using the swing set, watching as they soared higher and higher towards the sky. In class, he didn’t pay much attention, and our teacher always said to him ‘Marty, you need to get your head out of the clouds and into the books’. Then she would mumble to herself, ‘Yes, that boy is always dreamin’. Ain’t healthy. Won’t get hisself anywhere in this ‘ere world if he keeps it up’.”
At this part the old man paused. After a minute or two, he picked up the story again. “Marty wasn’t well liked by the other kids, so all throughout school he never had many friends. But that boy, that boy was always holding his head up high and somehow was smarter than all the other boys and girls. After he finished his schooling, he went off to college and we didn’t hear from him for a long time.”
The old man paused again, with the seeming intention of ending the story, but the little girl probed him. “What happened Grandpa? Please finish, I wanna hear what happens!” The old man gave a weak smile, and he ruffled her wind blown brunette hair.
“Then one day,” he said, “When Jimmy was much older and was raising a family, he turned on the TV after a hard day of work. That day was August 28, 1963, long before you two were born.” He gently beeped the children’s noses before continuing.
“And right there on TV, there was Marty, making a speech right in front of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC. He was talking about all his dreaming in front of a crowd of all kinds of people, and they were cheering at him. Our teacher had been wrong, he had made himself into a fine man with all his dreams. That boy used to walk down the street unnoticed and ignored and he grew into a man who was known worldwide. But if you saw this man today, you’d be looking into the eyes a ghost. The ghost of Martin Luther King, Jr.” By this time, the old man had been telling the story with a furious and grand momentum, and when he finished, silence dominated the air, muting the sounds of crickets composing their night symphony and the wind rushing through brambles and grass.
The girl looked down at her feet as he uttered the last words, and then she picked her head up. “Grandpa, is this story true?”
“As real as you and I. So dare to dream you two. Never be afraid of your dreams. They’ll take you higher than those swings.”
“Jimmy?!” an old lady yelled from a window inside the house. “You get those two children in here. I don’t care if it’s summer. Summer is almost over and it’s getting cold and dark!”
“Well, we better listen to grandma,” the old man laughed and pretended to shiver.
Once again, he took the two fragile hands within his own and led them into the house. The burnt sun had faded off the horizon, and the dim sky was beginning to grow stars. Before the little girl stepped over the threshold, she looked up at the starry sky. “Grandpa?” she asked. “I think dreams can take you over the stars too.”
11 comments:
I really like your story it was very intelligent and well thought over. I liked the part were the grandpa said that he saw him on t.v and that Marty followed his dreams. I liked the exposition also.
YOur story made me think of a tv show where they tell stories that leaves a point. Great setting development in the first paragraph it really made me visualize the picture. It also was a great relation to the effect of Martin Luthers speech to the common people. I discovered how influential his speech actually was by reaading your story. One thing you could try to do better is that you move from paragraph to paragraph quickly. Try to smooth out your writing. Other than that your story was phenomanal.
I really like your story. You used good detail throughout the whole story. I really like the first paragraph where you wrote, "The twilight sun showered a golden ray across the old man’s wrinkled skin as he watched a rusty car sputter and cough into his driveway." I could really imagine what the scene was.
I also think you had a good message to the story. I think people could really relate to your story. People always tell us to go for our dreams, and you explained that in a good way. I could relate to your story. My grandfather always told me stories and my brother always complained.
Taylor...your story is so incredibly touching. i recieved chilled up and down through out your story. your descriptions are remarkable and your word choice is finominal. i love your narative and i would write more but i need to shut down. but all i have to say is wow. and your soooooooo talented.
Taylor,that was a great story. My favorite thing about it is how it teaches you about a historical figure without being boring or tedious. It held my attention all the way through.
At the end of the story I was left with a 'wholesome' feeling. It was just a feel-good story, and made me happy to read about a grandpa passing knowledge down through the generations.
The description and imagery in the story was (to use one of David's words) phenomenal.
I also thought that the ending sentence was a great way to tie up the story.
Taylor, you use some very good descriptions throughout the story. I find it interesting how you chose not to give the boy and girl names. I think if my grandfather had told me that story I would have interrupted again and asked if the Jimmy was grandfather.
I think that it might have helped to mention that Marty was a black boy. Then there is the part where 'Jimmy' slips up and says "our teacher". That changes the narration. I like how you used the little girl to relay part of the message.
This was so different from your normal writing and I loved it. The way you took on history was interesting. I love how well I flowed through your story and how when the children would interrupt it would remind me of the movie "The Princess Bride". I love how you described 'Marty' and that seems so realistic to what he might have been as a child. When you used a southern accent in some of your dialog it really pushed the story up a notch.
I know I read this in French already, but I had to read it again.
I have to give you so much credit, with the limit you worked with this, it was short and sweet, but in all of that was compacted so much more.
You took a really wrote an inspirational story that I'm sure so many people can get from this and Dr.King.
The ending, though short, was my favourite of it all though. The sunset made it seem to me like the grandfather was facing an end with the inspiration he described, and it gave a real sense of pride when the child told him that she would go for her dreams too. Sort of the end meeting the beginning. I don't know if that's what you meant, but I really liked that.
I found captivating how your story developed fluidly by going form children visiting their grandfather, then a quiet boy at school, then to the leader of the civil rights movement. I also enjoyed how your story has a message which still holds true today. If assuming that the reason children did not like him because he was African American and they were racist how could they have neglected him due to the fact that schools were segregated and there could not have been any Caucasian children in his school.
Taylor, this was unbelievable. You had me reading the whole way through. I didn't want it to end at all. I think you did a geat job, all the description, the historical connection, the message you got across. I think adding in the southern dialect was perfect because it made is seem even more realistic. It was such a great read and made me feel happy and as Connie said, "wholesome." It really and truly moved me. You did such a great job, 10 stars! :)
Taylor,
Wonderful intro, and great physical descriptions of the grandfather (shaky leather hands were tucked into relaxed fists, the usually shallow creases in his face looked like canyons).
The story could really be about any boy who dared to dream, it doesn't really have to be about MLK, although I suppose that gives the story extra "oomph."
It's ironic that teachers tell children to "dare to dream," and then later criticize them for daydreaming.
The children's dialogue seemed authentic, and I enjoyed the pacing of your story, with the little interruptions from the children. Nice touch.
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