These were the 10 words I was given: Cheez-it’s, pizza, sleep, gym, laughter, music, rain, chocolate, sweatpants, love. In a log cabin
This is the story I wrote: (Do me a favor and read it in a British accent. It will help 🙂 )
The rain assails my cage whilst anticipation draws out as endless as the sea. That a life can wither in such a way I had known not. Had it come to me by word or by way perhaps I would have been better prepared for such desolation. Alas, I am beset.
Woe that a bird such as I could be so imprisoned, abjectly cast into the pit of suffering reserved for creatures of grey and black. These colours were intended for grander presentation; the music of my life to be played before the masses.
Whilst not my liberator come for me? Knowest he not the way? Hath dangers untold befallen him in the gallant quest to deliver this gem of ages into breaking dawn only to outshine it. Weep, for truly my plight is unmatched in the annals of man.
Speed, my love, speed. Your flower withers evermore.
Rising from my bed I chance to the window only to find that the downfall will not abate. Even gods seek to prolong my exile. I am cast from the eyes of both high and low. Will my anguish never cease?
A knock. The door hath been struck. Could it be fair prince? Hath he braved the way to be at the side of his one true love? Am I to be stolen away, loosed into the sky where I belong. Oh, I pray it so.
Dashing to the door I fling it wide to bathe in the sight of my hero. What hath fate rendered?
The rain cascades off his magnificent form and I behold a creature made from sinew and fine silk, Michelangelo’s David hath come for me.
“Pray, tell, my brave knight, to what end hath you sought this place?”
Silence fills the night. His powerful mind spins from the perils he hath overcome to stand before me.
“Are we doing this again?” he asks, and I am less than pleased at his failure to grasp the weight of the situation.
“Again, my love? Surely this is the first our eyes have met!” I shout, pleading with mine eyes.
“Right,” he says, shrugging his massively muscled shoulders. “So, the first question was something about why I came here, right?”
“I say,” I say, “thine words are vulgar. Could it be that thou dost not seek copulation on this fair night? Perhaps I would be better served to sleep, gods know I love it so.”
The musculature of his face shows that he hath grasped what lies in the balance should he fail in his task.
“Most assuredly not, my fair princess. I have traveled far in search of you and I just got finished at the gym so my, I mean ‘mine’, mine mind is not quite caught up to mine ass.”
“Ass? Really?” I query, disquietude getting the better of me.
“Yes, fair maiden. I hath worked it to exhaustion for thine pleasure. I present it,” he says, turning to produce his derrière. “Is it not lithesome? Is it not supple?”
“Your fortunes are turning for the worse I fear and I may have to seek solace in sleep after all.”
“But maiden, I have ridden long on the back of my great stead, Ford Bronco, to be at your side!”
That fate would send me such a creature! He hath no even the wit or extravagance to choose the Mustang instead. Miserly halfwit! Be gone from my sight!
“I have no time for such games. I shall pine away until my loins are of no use, certainly not to one such as you.”
“No, dearest damsel, do not turn from me. Do not shut me away from this, the log-iest of cabins, to be cast out of your sight and denied the beauty of you and your finest of faded sweatpants.”
I pray he can see the vexation upon my visage.
“I have come, enduring wandering pathways with terrible reception and a lack of GPS whilst Siri, my ever troublesome companion, lead me to ways unknown. I have soiled my finest raiments, purchased from the greatest smith in all the land – Dick, of Dick’s Sporting Goods. He hath crafted this fine chest piece in the style of the very Thomas Edward Patrick Brady, Jr., the noblest of all Patriots, so that I may woo you. Do not let these efforts be in vain! I pray you!”
“Seriously, Joe, you suck at this.”
“I can’t be good at everything.”
His laughter undoes me. I can’t help but smile, the big dope.
“Okay, so you aren’t prince charming. How are you going to make up for that?”
“Well, I brought you chocolate, Cheez-it’s, and pizza. How does that sound?”
I love this man.
People think that love is complicated. That it’s a grand gesture that can only be understood on a large stage in breathtaking moments with elegant words. That isn’t true. Love is in the little things. The small gestures. The minute understandings. Love is being close enough to someone to know how much leaving the last piece of chocolate in the box for them will mean. It’s driving out of the way to get to the store that sells their favourite snack just because it’s Tuesday and you love them.
Shakespeare wrote beautiful words and his love always died.
Real life isn’t always full of beautiful words, but if you look hard enough you will find that it is full of something even better.
It is full of simple love.
Simple love is the kind that never leaves you. It never betrays you. Simple love is rocking chairs and holding hands even when your hands can’t hold anything else. Simple love is grandchildren and forever.
Here is to simple love and the hope that it finds you every day.
Here, too, is to real men who know that loving Tom Brady is never simple.
Sorry. I had to ruin it a little there.
If you would like your own story, please feel free to contact me with 10 words, a theme (it can be a genre, favourite movie or book) and a song and I will write you a story as well. They are posted every Sunday.
Next Sunday (16 January) will be Paul’s Story. Look forward to it please!