If I were a kite on a windy day, I’d be so happy. I just know I would. Even with the slightest of breeze, there would come a tug on my string, lifting me gracefully off the ground. Soon I’d be flying above the rooftops, looking down upon the children playing happily in the park below. A strong gust of wind could send me above the highest trees encircling the park, and a gentle tug on my string would make it grow taut — propelling me even higher, with additional tugs sending me higher still. Then I could see everything a kite could ever want to see. Flying so high, I’d be almost out of sight. Oh, what a glorious thing to be: a kite on the end of a string.
But alas, I am not a kite.
If I were a pair of tennis shoes on the feet of a young child, I’d be so happy. I know we’d be a perfect fit. We’d run (and win) every race, climb the highest mountains, and hike the longest and steepest trails. And when it rained? Well, that’s when the fun would really get started. We’d jump in muddy puddles and wade through swollen creeks and back again. Yes, with a pair of youthful feet and me as their shoes, there would be nothing we couldn’t do.
But alas, I am not a pair of tennis shoes.
If I were a #2 pencil, I’d be so happy and smart. With my sharp point ready, I could work the math that sends a spaceship to Jupiter or Mars — even discover the formula to cure cancer or write a song sung around the world. And if inspiration is elusive, as sometimes it is, I’ll just lie in wait by holding up your hair in a messy bun. When inspiration finally comes, I could solve any problem, fix anything and even soar higher than a kite on the end of a string.
But alas, I’m not a #2 pencil.
If I were a book, that would be perfect. But not just any book; I’d be an ageless one filled with well-worn brittle pages that faded long ago from crisp white to a creamy brittle tan. Tattered by millenniums of use, my pages would contain every story ever written, no matter how long or short, happy or sad, good or even bad. Between my faded brown leather cover, I would contain them all. And readers eager to learn about the past would seek me out, carefully turning my pages and taking notes late into the night. Oh, what a glorious thing to be: a book with well-worn pages containing all written stories passed down through the ages.
But alas, I am not a well-worn book.
So, if I’m none of these, what am I?
I’m a writer of short stories. And if I do my job right, I can send you on a journey as high as a kite. Like the tennis shoes, I can walk you through a story from the beginning to the end. For almost twenty-five years, I’ve carried a #2 pencil and notepad with me to jot down titles or fragments of stories to be finished later. At last count, I’ve filled over fifty of those notepads.
The end.
The end of this story is actually the entire story or, I should say, all of the stories I’ve ever written. You see, one day, hopefully a long time from now, I will write my last story and then leave them bound in a brown leather book with crisp white pages.
It’s my hope that the stories will be read so many times that the cover will become worn and discolored, the crisp white pages will become faded and tattered, and those who have read them will have had as much enjoyment as I had in writing them — even if they think of themselves as a kite, a pair of tennis shoes, a #2 pencil, or even an old book.
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories weekly in The Citizen since 2001.]
