Fine-tuning our writing

Embellishing and finishing a story

It was at the crack of dawn, earlier than usual for the just retired Martin. After a whole life rising at six to go to work, he would these days opt to be at ease in bed until the sun had risen. But that day he was overcome with a weird gut feeling; he wrapped up, got hold of one of his favourite books and proceeded to read it by his chamber window sill. A flock of thrushes were cheerfully chirping outside, in his very well cared for back garden, mainly all over the magnificent old as the hills maple, which Martin’s great grandfather had grown, as stated by his family archives. All of a sudden, there was a cutting painful silence, such an intense silence that Martin was profoundly influenced. He raised himself from his wood rocking chair and looked around through the window. Right below the maple there was a skinny boy, not older than ten, completely dressed in rags, poring over a big book. The scene was so incredibly unbelievable that Martin gave his eyes a rub. For quite some time, he gaped at the little boy, who was profoundly engrossed in his book, as if that was his invariable spot for reading, a hidden corner of his own garden.  Then, Martin crept carefully down the stairs, opened the crystal glass door slowly onto his dearest garden, and again creeping carefully so not to distract the kid, he drew near the ancient maple. Bending towards the cold ground, he intriguingly asked: “It really seems a great book, doesn’t it?” For the first time, the little boy put down his book and looked around and, shyly breaking into a charming smile, gave him an answer: “This is the book of my life.” ……………………

 Martin was really astonished. “How can anyone so young have a book of his life?” he wondered. Curious as he still was, he asked the little boy to read him aloud a few lines. He went on: “A flock of thrushes were cheerfully chirping outside, in his very well cared for back garden, mainly all over the magnificent old as the hills maple, which Martin’s great grandfather had grown, as stated by his family archives.” “What the hell is this? Who are you? What do you want?” All of a sudden, the thrushes stopped their merry chirp and a strong wind blew up some sand into his eyes. When he could open them, not only there was no wind, but he could hear the musical chirp of the thrushes again. However, to his own surprise, he was sitting on his old rocking chair and there was no sign of no one under the old maple tree.