June 18, 2014 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about getting stronger is this weeks prompt from The Ranch.
As a child I always wanted to be stronger. Possibly it was because the Archaeologist was a year and a bit older and could hold me down (or as, with his memorably awful method of constraint, he put me under the mattress). Possibly it was because I was a large boy and people assumed size equalled strength – it didn’t, it just equalled bulk. I had a bad neck when I was about twenty and went to a physio – she took one look at my back and said ‘you have no muscles’ which I assume was a tad of an exaggeration but since I couldn’t see, who knows?
I learnt in my twenties that physical strength is rather overrated and inner strength, moral strength, holding out against the odds, the herd mentality, the sheer bloody stupidity of life’s many twists – that’s what counts. It’s not easy and it’s often sheer purgatory but the alternative is worse – the Quisling acceptance of what you know is wrong.
So from wherever you sup to find that strength, it’s the most powerful of wells and may it never run dry.
‘Let’s put them on the grave, Mum.’
Mary held the bunch tight, unable to move. That aroma; it couldn’t be her father’s aftershave. She sniffed the flowers; not them. ‘Can you smell anything?’
Penny nodded. ‘Grandpa. It’s getting stronger.’
‘Because he’s here, Mum.’ The girl took the flowers from her mother.
Mary straightened up. He hadn’t left her. He’d always be here, if she needed advice. Thank heavens, she had let Penny bring her.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ she whispered.
‘Come on, Mum.’
Behind a cloud, Peter watched Milton spear another can with his horn. He loved Old Spice.