The Story of Mathias Wizandar

His hands were shaking with sweat as he made his way in the darkness to the sink. An extraordinary man, Mathias’s previous notions had proven accurate. These next few lines mention his story.

His original name was Bob Smith, a horrifyingly common name. He did not mind his name much, enjoyed meeting other Bob Smiths into his early thirties. A Christian man, Bob had obtained an associate’s degree and left college to pursue the life of a paralegal, averaging between fourteen and twenty-four thousand a year. He lived alone, as most women he dated were either greedy for money, too overly controlling, or simply non-monogamous.

During Bob’s studies as an undergraduate, he studied various religions within one of his classes. Attending a Bible college, the more non-traditional belief systems of various cultures around the globe seemed to appeal to him. He liked the idea of Buddhism; mainly, the notion of pursuing a nothingness to achieve enlightenment.

During his many years working as a paralegal, Bob worked hard hours and saved and pursued two activities other than attending church once a week. One of those activities involved working for his brother-in-law, who ran a construction firm, on Saturday mornings. The pay was decent, yet the physical labor was what he enjoyed and also why he held the second job.

His other activity was painting. He painted obscure images of fantastical nature to impress both himself and others that may gaze upon his works, eventually got into oils and began to sell his paintings online. Of course, he saved his money from these sales and put it back into more painting supplies and material for study. Eventually, a studio.

By the age of forty, Bob had his own place for painting and politely took a permanent vacation from his law firm with a suitable retirement plan. It was understood that he could return to his legal services at any time; he may even consider studying to pass the bar exam, eventually.

Bob was of the mind to dream, consider possibilities, and pursue what intrigued him most. His paintings were selling and the rent for his studio was low; he decided to take it a little easier on his forty-first birthday and gave up construction work, at least temporarily.

There was something pressing on Bob’s mind. He enjoyed reading and writing, usually read some form of fantasy, sci-fi, or horror story before bedtime. The horror stories usually did not scare him; he enjoyed analyzing the grammatical style of prose and considering what caused fear to occur in the mind of a work’s reader. He had noticed that the spiritual realm was not just some hoax; it was there. He saw or sensed spirits all the time, did not let these occurrences distract his Christian beliefs.

Growing up, Bob was taught, as a Christian, to stay away from ‘occultic’ study. He had always wondered; however, why would practitioners of magic chose an afterlife of doom for rewards on Earth? There simply had to be a justifiable temptation. “One way or the other,” thought Bob, “I am, at least, going to consider the study of magic.”

On one breezy, cloud-cast, and relaxing Saturday afternoon, Bob decided to jog across town to the local bookstore to check out anything he could find on practicing magic. After all, what could it hurt? Wouldn’t certain notions further found him in his Christian beliefs? Though many clergymen would most certainly disagree, he made the jog over to the bookstore.

He found a great many books, many of which seemed overpriced or fancy yet not necessarily what he was after. He picked up a book on how to light candles with spells, calmly grinning to himself in wonder of said possibility. He flipped through the book quickly so as not to catch the eye of a worker; Bob was no freeloader, that was for sure. On the back of the book there were references to other books and a website that sold them. He memorized the website; put the book back; quickly jotted down the site in a small address book; and made his way to the magazine section towards the front of the store.

He spent little time looking through the magazines and selected one on modern painting with oils and other mediums. Bob brought the magazine to the counter, purchased it along with a grape-peach Snapple, and headed home.

Once home he spent about an hour going through the magazine and admired the paintings and various techniques he did and did not know of, before. Of course, the site he had written down seemed to be jumping around in his pocket in need of attention. He looked the site up on the web with a search engine and found hundreds of sites with books on spirituality, healing, and witchcraft.

Bob made sure to check out the site he had written down first and also browsed through the top five most visited sites found with the search. Of the books he saw, he finally found one that seemed to appeal to him the most, which happened to be on the site he had written down. It was a basic history of witchcraft, how to become a Wiccan priest, and basic practices with spells and the acknowledgement of various Sabats (which he eventually thought of as ‘witch Sundays’ that seemed to occur at least one hundred days a year).

Bob ordered the book and continued with the arduous work involved in painting and selling his art. The book came in about a week later and he read twenty to sixty pages of it a night until he had completed the text. He was not too keen on burning incense, drinking wine, or dancing around naked with witches, yet he learned a few things that satisfied his curiosities.

Bob then found his dilemma. He was sure he would have to denounce his Christianity in order to fully pursue the virtues and goodwill of Wiccan order. He thought about it for a few weeks as he was painting landscapes overcast with floating geometric objects and made a form of lukewarm decision. He would study and sometimes practice rituals without actually denouncing his original beliefs. The spirits near him seemed to be watching him patiently, waiting to help him achieve whatever goals he was really after.

It dawned on Bob that there was an occultic bookstore not too far away, one day, and he jogged over there on another Saturday afternoon. Seemingly odd, Bob was not even after a new text. He was after council, and he found it.

Bob cautiously entered the modest store; small bells chimed as a young woman was behind a counter. A faint smell of books and a small cherry-scented candle emanated within the stores shadows. “May I help you?” asked Melany. “I am in search of a basic text for those just beginning to study magic,” replied Bob politely.

Melany blushed and looked to the side and said, “Well, kind sir, we have a few of those here.” She walked over to a shelf and pointed out her favorite one to Bob. He sensed a second presence behind the counter. There were a few copies of the text and they seemed reasonably priced, so he selected one and thanked her. She checked her watch and noticed that it was nearly time for her to go. About the same time, Bob looked over to the counter to see a tall, handsome man, obviously in his golden years.

“May I go, sir?” asked Melany. “Sure,” said the man. Melany said that it was nice to meet Bob and to have a nice day. She gathered a few of her things, put on her sunglasses, and flew out the front door to make it in time for her favorite show.

Bob carefully made his way to the counter, curiously wondering just how intelligent the man must be. “Friend of Melany’s?” inquired the man. “No sir,” replied Bob, “Not until just now, I suspect. My name is Bob Smith.” “A common name.” “Right, I have considered changing it for some time, have not really come up with anything.”

The book still in Bob’s hands, the man said, “Why not Mathias Wizandar? It seems to suit your pursuits.” “Well then,” said Mathias, “I will go by that. What, may I ask, might you go by?” “Call me Tom; I am a wizard with many names in many places.” “I sensed your presence,” admitted Matt, and Tom nodded in understanding.

After a moment, Matt realized that there were a great many things for him to learn and proceeded to pay Tom for the book. “No questions?” asked Tom. “I honestly have no doubt in your capability,” replied Matt quietly. “When your questions arise, and I am sure they will, feel free to come here or give me a ring.” Tom handed Matt a business card who read and held it for a moment as if it was some unknown living creature.

The address on the card was to a large estate on the outskirts of town. “Will do. I am, as you may know, an artistic painter.” Matt carefully handed Tom his own business card which included his website and contact info. “I have some time on Saturdays if you need any help with the upkeep of your estate.” “Will do,” said Tom with a grin. Matt thought he saw his business card float into the pocket of the wizard yet discounted the notion, shook the wizard’s hand, and said it was nice to meet him and thanked him for the book, and departed.

Mathias, while jogging back, constantly reminded himself of how real the spiritual world and the power of magic must really be. Upon his return, he settled in, ate, and set back in his chair to start reading his new book. His spiritual surroundings seemed excited and watched his every move. Matt read the table of contents and glossed over the index. Even given all of the spells, practices, and rituals of the first book on witchcraft he read, which seemed to him to be a kind of a documentary, Bob found one spell that seemed to be a fun thing to try out before turning in.

The spell involved a simple thanks to a god and goddess, a candle centered within a circle drawn with charcoal, and two short poetic chants spoken with words in semblance to each other. One poem would light the candle, and the other the opposite. This would surely be no challenge for Mathias, the notation below the chant mentioned, “First and foremost, you must believe.”

Matt changed into bedtime clothes, found a thin, blank square of wood, and drew a charcoal circle. He retraced it a few times so the medium was thick. Matt then dug out a tea candle from a bag of them he had purchased while the lights were out due to a storm. He lay the book open by the circle, relaxed, held his hands above the candle, and whispered the first poem.

At first nothing happened, yet he held his hands above the candle, and it slowly came aflame. He watched it only briefly, ignoring his amazement, and glanced over to the book. He read the ‘de-cantation’ poem verbatim with his hands still held up, and the small flame slowly faded away.

By then, dusk had turned to night, and it was totally dark, with seemingly no one around. He felt a peace in the darkness, yet, in only a few moments, thought he heard someone thinking. “You know,” the voice said, “If you raise and lower your hand over the candle I will change the height of the flame.” Matt, at first, thought the notion to be crazy; that, surely, he had better things to do with his time.

Mathias courageously held his right hand above the candle and raised and lowered it, as its flame not only rekindled yet rose tall or fell short upon his motions. What seemed fun at first scared him in only a few moments. He sat back startled, the flame assumed its natural height, and, after taking a deep breath and exhaling, Mathias Wizandar made his way to the kitchen sink to wash his perspiring hands. These words may seem to conclude Mathias’s story, yet, as it may be no surprise, they are simply the beginning.


Timothy’s Magic Kite

Once upon a time, a boy endured a fulfilling Friday both in April and in the third grade. During recess, he noticed how windy it was, as children played joyfully, some swaying to and fro on swings. During the bus ride home, he thought to himself, “Man, if I would have had a kite I could have flown it a hundred feet in the air on the first try.”

At the dinner table that evening, young Tim kept cautious with his manners, as if it were no common phenomenon. Upon a what seemed like a four-year wait to speak, he said, “It would have been a nice afternoon to fly a kite, today.” “Maybe if you promise to do some yard work tomorrow your father will take you to the store and buy you a kite to fly on Sunday,” proposed his mother. “I have no problem with doing some yard work,” knew Tim to refrain from objecting to, “I have always wanted to build a kite, though.”

“If you want,” said his father, “And I do plan on sleeping in tomorrow morning, you can try to build one with the slim dowels I have in the garage I usually use for cooking barbecue. Those and some left-over fabric from your mother should get you going.” Tim’s father glanced to his loving wife, and she said, “Oh sure, Honey, I have a sack of extra fabric for quilting in the side closet you are welcome to.”

Tim thought about it; he almost did not want to make the kite, simply because they said he could, wondered of his own mind. He noticed they did not again mention yard duty. “Okay if I try to make the kite tonight and sweep up the leaves in the morning?” “Sure,” said his father, “And, as the weather will probably permit, we can go to the park and fly your new kite tomorrow afternoon.” Young Tim was so excited he nearly left before eating the hamburger steak and mashed potatoes before him, as he had made sure to eat the lemon-butter broccoli first. There would have been no getting away with skipping out on that. Even if vegetables were not his usual first choice, the broccoli was not so bad, after all.

The meal was great and Tim politely relayed this information to his mom and thanked her and proceeded to the garage. He found the yard-long barbies and broke and tied them into a rectangular box-like structure just like he saw on a TV show one time that involved Japanese origami kites. He went and found some scissors and the fabric and went back into the garage. Young Timothy selected the most beautiful fabric, two separate partial sheets. One was dark orange with small green and yellow flowers; the other sheet was bright orange-yellow with purple and blue flowers resembling birds of paradise.

Fully constructed, Tim brought the magnificent kite to his bedside, as it was nearing 10 pm. His brother and his sister were already asleep; Tim went and checked on his parents before saying his prayers and turning in with his amazing new kite by his bedside. In the middle of the night, Tim awoke and could have sworn he saw his kite floating a foot above the ground, as if it were dreaming of being in the sky. The boy discounted the notion. Surely he was dreaming; he went back to sleep until just before daybreak.

Upon dawn, Tim marveled over the kite as if he had never seen it before, totally impressed with its construction, durability, and overall aesthetics. He left it there; showered and changed; brushed his teeth; ate a biscuit and drank some juice; and proceeded to go sweep the leaves.

A chore it was, for the wind was strong and nearly constant. Timothy swept the entire yard, five sacks full of leaves in total. It was noon and his mother called him in for a bologna sandwich and glass of milk. She thanked him for sweeping up the yard, commending his efforts. His father woke up, showered and changed, ate, and inspected Tim’s kite. “Impressive construction,” said Walter, Tim’s father. “Thank you,” said Tim, and they drove with the kite to the park, telling Mrs. Wellington “Goodbye, I love you, and we’ll be back soon.” She waved and blew them kisses as they departed.

The park was gently lit by the afternoon sun and puffy scattered clouds of its sky blue atmosphere. Adults and children played about. Some played catch, others tag, and the rest other games or picnicked. There were sunbathers and card players, nonchalant people existing in a happy joy. Tim and his father made a lengthy walk to a large field in the back of the park. They did not know if the thick string they brought would suffice to fly the kite, yet they planned to take their chances.

Tim and Walter stood about thirty-five yards apart from each other, the wonderful kite in Walter’s hands, his eyes on Tim. Tim assessed the flow of wind, deemed it an adequate constant for their endeavors. “Do you have a good hold on the string?” asked Tim’s father. “I think I have it.” “I will count to three and throw it into a rising gust.” “Okay.”

Walter counted slowly aloud to three and, while allowing the kite to catch the drag of the wind, slowly let it go to float into the air. An astonishing amusement to young Tim, the kite (possibly magical) rose from ground level and climbed in the wind with semi-chaotic grace. Tim pulled left then right, carefully, and guided the kite into the air, higher and higher, until it was about twenty yards above the ground. “Let out some string,” called Walter, and Tim carefully let string from his hands, about six inches at a time. The flying kite amazed Walter. “We got it up there,” he exclaimed. Tim was happy and impressed, too, and saw to it that he got the kite to about fifty yards above the ground before keeping it there in close to the same position.

Many could see the kite swaying gently far above the field, and Walter began walking back to Tim. “The wind is getting stronger,” said Tim, using his strength to hold the string; “The string may break.” “Keep hold of it,” said Walter, as he was walking back to Tim, eyes on the kite. Tim wrapped the string around his hands to hold it well; his father would be there any second to take hold of the line. Just as Tim felt confident he could keep the kite in the air and the line from breaking, his feet left the ground.

Walter saw Tim lifting into the air and dove to catch him. Walter hit the ground belly first, and Tim floated higher into the air. “Let go of the string,” said Walter, but Tim held on to it. By the time he could have unwound his hands, he would be over twenty feet above the ground. The kite rose into the wind, as did Tim. Walter panicked and ran to his car, only to notice he locked the keys inside.

“Hey mister,” said a young woman with a pink Volkswagen Beetle, “Hop in and we’ll follow him if we can.” Walter ran over and got into her car, as Tim soared high above them in a direction away from the park, towards the city.

Tim looked down; the breeze up there was nice. “It might kill me to see it,” thought Tim, “But this is a wonderful view of our city.” Tim could see entire residential neighborhoods, city blocks, industrial buildings, and the cars looked thumb-sized. The wind carried him on.

The young woman happened to be an excellent driver; she and Walter followed Timothy right out of the city, who was beginning to appreciate the beauty of the outskirts of town. Mostly under-developed farmland with the occasional brook, small cabin, or herd of cows, Tim tried to appreciate the view and his many blessings in life the best he could. “Dear Lord,” prayed Tim, “Please, help me land safely.”

At that very instant, as Tim was looking down into a puffy white cloud and barely able to see a field of trees below, he began to slowly descend. The driver’s name was Molly. She and Walter watched in relief, as Tim was appearing to descend and the string and kite seemed to still be intact. Tim was headed for what looked like a hundred-year-old oak tree. He descended gracefully and landed in the lower bushy limbs of the tree. Safely.

Within moments, Walter ran to his son, picked him up and embraced him, thanking the Lord above for his son’s well-being. Tim hugged his father who placed him on the ground. He shook Molly’s hand and thanked her, too. “You are one lucky child,” remarked Molly, “And that is an impressive kite.” “Thank you,” said Tim, “Cool car,” and Walter gave Molly some gas money, as they went with the kite to the pink Beetle.

They put the kite in the back seat for a relaxing ride back into the sunset falling behind their town. After some while, Molly pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. “What now?” wondered both Walter and Tim. “Is it just me or is the kite in the back seat floating in the air?” asked Molly. “It’s magic,” said Tim, and Walter kept his eyes on the road. “Oh,” said Molly, “Okay,” and she proceeded to drive on down the farm road to the park.

Once back, Walter thanked Molly and called his wife for car keys, and he and Tim drove home with the kite. Tim secretly thanked the Lord above for answering his prayers, and everyone lived happily ever after. Tim would never forget his times with his wonderful, magical kite.

A Nice Arrangement

A Nice Arrangement

Once upon a time, there were two people who worked a late night shift.  One of their names was Lucy Thrall.  The other person’s name was Charlie Crown.

The two coincidentally were without work and found work during the holiday season.  A large merchandising store placed an ad in a popular newspaper that said, “Now Hiring Seasonal Workers.”  Lucy and Charlie both worked in shipping, loaded boxes into large trucks for six hours a night.  They worked six days a week.

The two had worked together for three weeks.  Charlie loved Lucy; her husband had left her about a year ago.  Charlie thought, “What happens when this job is over?  How will I still speak with Lucy?”  She still had a lot to talk about; she was not quite through telling Charlie about her personal problems, in Charlie’s guesses.

“What would you think if I bought you dinner sometime?” asked Charlie, one night.  “Are you asking me to go on a date?” asked Lucy.  “No,” said Charlie, “I just thought it might be nice to share dinner with someone – I have not gone out to eat in a nice restaurant in months.”  “Where would we go?” asked Lucy.  “What do you have in mind?” asked Charlie.  “The nice restaurant on 7th and Elk seems interesting.  I hear the food is phenomenal, though it is kind-of expensive,” said Lucy.

“It sounds like a good idea,” said Charlie, “When would be a convenient time to go?”  “I can meet you there on Friday at 6:30 PM,” said Ms. Thrall; “I will be there,” said Mr. Crown.  The two ended their conversation and went back to work.  Their normal hour-long lunch break was over.  They worked through the night.  Charlie was happy that he would see Lucy outside of work.  He wanted what she did; he wanted to make her happy.

Friday came and Charlie dressed to kill.  He shaved his entire body; put on his nicest slacks and a casual business dress shirt; and a minimal splash of cologne and his nicest watch.  With his best shoes on, Mr. Crown walked out of his door in good time.  He got to the restaurant early.  He had made reservations for a table of two, Mr. Crown and Ms. Thrall.  Charlie made it to the restaurant by 6:12 PM.  The host checked his listing and found Charlie and Lucy’s name written down for 6:30 PM.  “Right this way,” said the nicely dressed host.  Charlie followed the host, tried to absorb the atmosphere normally only known of by common aristocrats in the surrounding area.

Charlie was sat down at a nice table towards the back of the restaurant.  The lighting was romantic and the place was clean.  “I hope Lucy enjoys this,” thought Charlie, “It sure is a nice place.”  A server named, Jonah came over to see Charlie.  Jonah was a highly presentable individual – he did not make mistakes.  Jonah was dressed to perfection.  “Hi, my name is Jonah, and I will be your server, tonight,” said Jonah.  “It is nice to meet you,” said Charlie.  Charlie’s eyes were already on the host-stand.  It was not even 6:30 PM, and he was watching for Lucy.

“I am waiting for an acquaintance of mine,” said Charlie, “She should be here any minute.”  “Okay,” said Jonah, “Can I bring you anything?”  “May I have a glass of ice water?” asked Charlie.  “Sure,” said Jonah.  Jonah left and returned with a glass of ice water, tended to his other patrons while keeping Charlie’s presence known.  Charlie watched his watch.  6:30 PM passed and Lucy was not there.  Charlie noticed the nice arrangement of flowers on the table and thought to himself, “That is a lovely arrangement of flowers, there.”  He watched the host’s stand.  There was no Lucy to be seen.

Jonah checked on Charlie at 6:35.  “Do you think she is coming?” asked Jonah, trying to be as nice as possible.  “She may be running late,” said Charlie.  “We both work at night; she may be tired or sleeping,” he thought aloud.  “May I bring you an appetizer while you wait?” asked Jonah.  It was clear that Charlie was not leaving just yet.  “What do you have available?” asked Charlie.  Jonah handed him a menu sheet with the word “Appetizers” on the top of it.  Jonah saw many different treats and good ideas.  He saw one line that advertised a fried escargot basket for 7$.  “What do you think of the fried snails?” asked Charlie.

“I eat them all the time and I think they are great,” said Jonah, “They come with a dipping sauce that is similar to marinara.”  “I guess I will try some of those,” said Charlie, “I hope Lucy is on the way.  This arrangement of flowers is very nice.”  “Thank you,” said Jonah, “One of the cooks and I chose those.  They are combinations of pink, white, and violet orchids.”  “I am impressed,” said Charlie Crown.  Jonah left and returned in 6 minutes with a basket of fried snails and dipping sauce.  “Still no sign of Lucy?” asked Jonah.  “No,” said Charlie, “Thank you for the snails.”

Charlie ate the snails, one by one; the flowers reminded him of florists – they were without flaw.  Half of an hour had gone by, and Lucy had not come into the restaurant.  Jonah came and checked on Charlie a couple of times; they both decided that she might not be coming.  7:30 PM passed by, and Jonah came over to Charlie.  “Would you like to order a meal?” asked Jonah.  “Do you have anything to go?” asked Charlie.  “We have some toasted lunch sandwiches that are pretty good,” said Jonah, “Would you  like to try one of those?”

“How much are they?” asked Charlie, he had planned to pay for two luxurious dinners.  He was not too concerned about the cost of a lunch sandwich.  “My favorite one is a Philly cheese-steak sandwich with mozzarella and little yellow chili peppers,” said Jonah, “It is 7$.”  “That sounds splendid,” said Mr. Crown.  Jonah brought him the sandwich in a Styrofoam to-go container; it was nearing 8 PM.  The server also brought Charlie his check.  “Thank you,” said Charlie, as he looked at the check.  The check had an automatic gratuity on it for 2$.  It totaled 17$, due to 1$ for the cost of the glass of water.  “Can I pay you here?” asked Charlie.  “Sure,” said Jonah.

Mr. Crown handed Jonah 25$ in cash and enjoyed one last gaze upon the pretty orchids.  Ms. Thrall must not have been able to make it, somehow.  He shook Jonah’s hand.  Both said, “Thank you,” and Charlie left to go get ready for work.

My Idea… the Saint of Wisdom

My Idea… the Saint of Wisdom

I awoke in the late morning hour.  It was nearing 4 AM; Ma and the children were sleeping.  I went for a stroll.  On I walked, the moonlight pale, I was sure to find some stress-free form of fatigue sometime soon.  It was then that I saw a path from the road.  It was an old lot; the lot led to land owned by neighbors.  “Interesting path,” I thought to myself.  I was sure to find something or someone.

I made my way down the dark pathway in the night and found a clearing.  It was a nice clearing – open wide enough for moonlight, yet still small enough to be rather hidden.  I took a deep breath and looked to the sky.  A spirit of the winds descended – it looked like a cloud of smoke forming above me.

“What have you?” it asked.  I happened to have a small painting in my pocket of a horizon.  It was cooked in a kiln; I thought it was precious.  “I have this small painting,” I said to the cloud, not knowing much about why it had asked me the question.  “What if I could turn you into a saint?” asked the cloud, “Would you let me have your painting?”  “Sure,” I said.  I would gladly give a cloud a painting – any moonlit night would qualify for such an idea.

“What kind of saint?” I asked.  “Any kind of saint you can ask to be,” said the cloud, “May I see the painting?”  I took out the small porcelain paperweight from my left pocket and held it up in the air.  It floated up about two feet.  “Nice dawn,” said the cloud.  “Thank you,” I said, trying to figure out what kind of saint I could ask for before the phenomenon vanished.  “I would like to become a saint of wisdom,” I said to the cloud, “For that, you can keep the small painting.”

“You will now forever be the actual Saint of Wisdom,” said the cloud, “Even after you perish.”  “Wow and thank you,” I said.  “No problem,” said the cloud, and it slowly faded away with the painting.  There was nothing left but the crisp moonlit night; I returned home for slumber.  I slept well.

A True Saint


My Dream, the Toy-Maker; link to daily post

My Dream, the Toy-Maker

Once upon a time there was a young boy named Mathew.  Matt was nine years old.  Spending time with his grandfather was an often occurrence of his on the weekends.  It gave his parents a break.  As a growing boy, Matt usually ate more at his grandparents.  One weekend, it was late on Saturday afternoon.

“Grand ma, what are we having for dinner tonight?  May I help out?” asked Matt.  Matt loved helping his grandmother, however he usually was not allowed.  “Your grandfather is outside changing the oil in that big iron box he calls a car.  Go help him, and I will fix us three up something splendid,” said his grandmother.  Matt went outside to see his grandfather.

“What can I do for you, grand pa?” asked Matt.  “Hold this light,” said his grandfather.  Matt held the light, and his grandfather loosened the oil filter from the bottom of a large engine.  The old oil drained into a pan, and his grandfather was happy that it was not too difficult to get the filter off.  Matt’s grandfather wanted to talk, did not know what to say.  “So,” he asked, “What would you become if you could do anything you wanted to with your life?”  “I am not sure,” said Matt, “I will probably try to do well in school and become a doctor.  If I do not make it, I can always find an easier route.”

“What would you do for a job while in school?” asked his grandfather.  “Anything that might make people happy, I guess,” said Matt, “I could cook for people.”  At that time Mathew looked up to the shelf in the old dusty garage of his grandfathers.  The shadows there never caught much light, not even during times close to noon.  “What are those stringed dolls up there?” asked Matt.  “Those are mine,” said his grandfather, “I made them with my dad when I was very young.  They are carved out of wood and painted.  I wanted a new radio for Christmas one year; Pa was out of work.  We made those dolls, and I got a radio for my birthday.”

“Wow,” said Matt.  “There are a lot of expensive toys out there, these days,” he said aloud.  “There sure are,” said his grandfather, “Most toys come from large manufacturers by the thousands, now.”  “I do not guess there is not anyway to make good toys, is there?” asked Matt.  “Oh sure there is,” said his grandfather, “You could start a small hobby store including small remote electronic devices and stay busy all day long.”  “I think that is what I am going to do,” said Mathew.  His grandfather had the car put back together and was pouring in the last pint of new oil.  “What do you have in mind, Matt?” asked his grandfather.  “When I grow up,” said Matt,” I am going to become a toy-maker.”

Futures Past Daily Prompt