The Little Boy

Once there lived a little boy who came from a well-off family. His home was a large mansion with lawns stretching for a mile, embellished with beautiful flower beds and gurgling fountains. Yet the family was charitable, treating all beggars kindly and giving much to those in need. The little boy was the youngest of the family of 8, and the most innocent of them all.

One day, the little boy chanced upon the family’s library room. He was amazed by the sheer volume of books in it. The shelves stretched from the floor to the ceiling, which reached 4 metres high, and the whole breadth of the room. It was an oak room, with a reading table and light, perfectly suited for intense study.

The little boy was more mature than most his age. He walked into the room carefully and drew out a volume from the lowest shelf. It was a book on science, and as he flipped the pages, he was thrilled by the many pictures and descriptions of chemicals, plants, human anatomy and such. Enchanted, he vowed to himself that he would finish reading all the books in the library.

The next day, he strode purposefully into the room, took out the same volume, plopped it onto the desk, turned on the reading lamp, and started reading. Soon, he was completely absorbed into the book. However, as he flipped page after page, he slowly realized that he was impossibly far from the end. Pausing, he turned to check the number of the last page of the book. It read, ‘2490’. He was aghast. Looking up, he saw the great volumes of books before his eyes, stretching from the floor up, and from one side of the room to the other. Despondent, he sunk into his seat and, not knowing what to do, started sobbing.

His mother, walking in the corridor, heard her son and peeked into the room. The little boy didn’t notice her until she came up to him. With loving eyes, she asked, ‘Son, what’s wrong?’

Choking back tears, he said, ‘Mama, I want to read everything in this room. I love it. But there’s just so much and I cannot finish it.’

His mother looked at him with pride and gently said, ‘Well, why don’t you do it step by step? I’m sure you’ll be able to finish it then.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. You know how the grandfather clock in the hallway ticks and ticks away through the day and through the night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, don’t you think that he probably felt the same way as you when he first started ticking? He probably thought, ‘My my, I have to tick 60 times a minute, 360 times an hour, 8640 times a day, and many more times for years on end!’ But then he realized that if he just took it step by step, tick by tick, he would be just fine. That’s his secret.’

The little boy realized the wisdom in his mother’s words and, wiping his tears away, beamed brightly and gave her a hug. As she left the room, she blew him a kiss which he caught and returned, a smile on his face.

And so the little boy continued day by day, reading page after the page.

Winter came, and the little boy started to feel a little queasy. It first started out as a little cough. As the days wore on, it became increasingly severe. He started losing his appetite, and he grew paler. One day, while reading in the study, he coughed up a clot of blood. The family doctor had longed suspected it, and now the diagnosis was confirmed as tuberculosis.

As the little boy lay in bed, sickly and nigh on death, his family members stood by his side. His mother sponged his warm forehead as he slept fitfully. Opening his eyes, he saw his mother and, with his tiny voice, uttered sadly, ‘Mother, I’ve done what you’ve told me to do.’

His mother, startled, asked kindly, ‘And what is that son?’

‘I’ve been reading bit by bit each day for a long time.’

‘Yes you have son, I’m proud of you.’

‘But,’, the little boy choked, ‘I haven’t been able to finish the whole study. I’ve only managed to read 1 book.’

There was a short pause, after which the boy said, ‘Ma, may I have a book to read?’

She immediately got up and fetched him a book from the study.

He propped himself up on the bed, opened the book, and read. As the sun went down, he struggled to keep himself awake, his little frame shaking from the effort.

Finally exhausted, he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, his breathing shallow.

‘I wonder if, sometimes, the grandfather clock doesn’t ask himself what would happen if he just couldn’t tick anymore?’ his mother whispered quietly.

The little boy didn’t respond. Bending forward, she hugged him gently and kissed him.

THE END

THE STATUE

Once upon a time there lived a statue, a lonely marble statue in the centre of an aging garden which always shed autumn leaves. Small pools of fetid, stagnant water surrounded it, collecting on indentations of the rough stone tiled floor on which it stood upon. Its right hand pointed accusingly at the sky, the other hand clenched tightly and put against its left hip. Its right leg stood bent at the knee in the direction of its right finger, and the left was ramrod and straightened out. Its face was an expression of calm, its head parallel to the ground, its eyes piercing forward, lips pursed slightly.

One day, a lost man stumbled into the garden. He didn’t notice the statue at first, being more concerned with avoiding the puddles of fetid water. Then, stepping into its shadow, he noticed something amiss and looked up. There, before his eyes, lay the statue, a figure of queer beauty. He had never seen anything like it.

What does it mean? he pondered.

The finger pointed towards the sky, now a darkening expanse with emerging stars.

Perhaps it means that one should look forward to the future, he thought.

He saw that its eyes looked forward too and thought, never let your eye off your goals.

He glanced to the statue’s left and saw the opposing hand, tightly clenched and put akimbo. That must mean that one should be assertive in getting one’s goals too, he said.

Looking at the feet, he remarked, that must be it- striding forward into the morrow.

He stepped back and gazed in awe at the statue. What a masterpiece! He said to himself.

As he took another step back, his heel bumped into an object on the floor. He turned and looked, and there lay a broken marble fencing weapon, like the rapiers of old. He glanced back up, looked again at the marble foil, and realized that it was originally placed in the outstretched right hand of the statue.

He looked at the statue and reflected on his ruminations, smirking as he thought of them. Laughing at himself and shaking his head, he walked away into the darkness.

THE END