Once Upon A Time
Once upon a time there lived an author named Michael who just had to write. He had always wanted to write but until he retired he had no time. Work, sailing, naval history and his family took it all up. But still the urge to write was strong in him, so one day he decided that was it, gave up his job and moved to the mountains in the land of ‘Not Far Away’ and began writing.
He would travel to see his family twice a year, even though the journey was arduous and began to affect his health, but always he was writing it was a hard time. Nothing seemed to be right, the story didn’t fit, the sun didn’t shine and he very often felt he was standing in a corridor he could see no end to, but still he ploughed on. He had written a story about a friend from memories of things he had told him of his early life in London. But it didn’t seem right, it kept niggling at him what was he to do?
Monks, Old Friends and A Story
The one day the sun shone and Michael went up to the roof terrace to look at his mountains and forest, something had changed he could feel it. He decided to go for a walk and wandered off down to the river where the trees were bathed in the soft glow of the sun and the river shimmered and glistened, it sparkled as if strewn with diamonds he felt good. That evening the sky put on a wonderful show, clouds looked as if they were on fire and glowed with warmth and the promise of things to come.
The next day when out for a walk Michael saw a monk coming towards him, now this was very strange what was a monk doing up here? as he drew near the monk spoke and Michael recognised a voice he hadn’t heard for years “you’re a hard man to find my friend.” it was his old friend Stanley. Well that was not only a complete shock but a pleasant surprise. They went back to the writers house and spent a few days catching up on their lives. When Stanley heard what he was doing he suggested that he told the full story and Michael write it down and that is how An East-end Boy came to life. Stanley popped back and forth every now and then always there was no warning, the habit of a strange monk….
(c) M.D.Bosc -Author