There is no first moment; no single word or place from which this or any story springs. The threads can always be traced back to some earlier tale, and the tales that preceded that; though as the narrator’s voice recedes the connections will seem to grow more tenuous, for each age will want the tale told as if it were of its own making.– Clive Barker, Weaveworld.
There was an auld wife from th’toon,
Whee tahkt leik a reet proppa loon.
Sh’ did a bit learnin,
Soon tides were a turnin,
Now she speaks with a sense of aploomb.
He once had a dog with the same name as me,
He told me with whisky in hand.
He wasn’t too tall, you were up to his knee,
And he came from a far away land.
He carried the look of a debonair spy,
With a tale for every occasion.
He once was a king for a charming young queen,
And a court who gave standing ovation.
Old pals and workmates were often the stars,
Of many a tell that was told.
Stories of ferry boats, barracks and bars,
And scallywag capers of old.
He told stories so tall, can’t remember them all,
And baked us bread crusty and warm.
His last Great Escape was no less a jape,
As they whistled him off away home.
The old woman’s story ended in loneliness. She wrote her final letter to someone unknown. The spidery writing was barely legible, written by a shaking hand.
I am sending you word to say I am alone now. Surrounded by strangers and forgetting the days. I will travel to you soon.
It was never posted. The intended recipient never found. Instead, it remains in a heart-shaped box on her granddaughter’s dresser.
The trail begins with simple grace,
Jumanji Woman stands in awe.
She doesn’t know the pitfalls she’ll face,
Only what came before.
The trials and challenges that come her way,
Are like her mother’s strife.
And her mother’s mother who led the way,
So, she could live her life.