Short Story – Isaac Newton and the Apple a revised ‘history’

‘Ouch’ wailed Isaac as he slipped to the ground, his quills, ink and parchments scattered around his feet, ‘that blessed apple hurt me’.  He looked for the offending item, found it, and then proceeded to take a bite feeling very pleased with himself that he’d at least manage to have some lunch as he’d forgotten to take any with him.  Isaac had just closed his mouth to be able to chew his prize when ‘Oi, wha’d’ya think you’re doing’? shouted a tiny, tinny voice right in front him.

Startled, Isaac opened his eyes and almost died of fright.  There, right in front of him, rising out of the apple with his tiny fists shaking, was a worm.  Yes, a worm.  Talking nay shouting – sort of – he was a worm after all.  ‘My pardon sir’, said Isaac – he still had his manners even though he’d been felled by an apple and shouted at by a worm – ‘but do you realise to whom you are shouting?  And what, pray, is a worm doing being able to talk’?

‘Never mind me talking mate, what ya gonna do about my apple, that’s sheer vandalism that is, not to mention theft – taking another’s property -yeh, theft, that’s wot it is’, responded the worm sweating profusely in sheer fright as he’d almost had his head bitten off.

‘Theft, yeah, you tell him mate’, came another little voice off to the left.  A voice, moreover, that appeared to be emanating from a mouse hiding behind another apple.

‘My apologies Mr Worm, I think I must be in shock.  I was watching the apple fall from the tree you see, and wondering what it was that propelled it down to the ground, instead of up towards the sky or sideways’.  ‘Why that’s easy Mr Bigshot Dandy Pants’, responded the worm ‘it’s gravity and the laws of motion, that’s what it is – really you humans know nothing, gravity makes things fall to the ground – or on yer bonce in your case mate’!

Of course, no self-respecting man of science could admit that he’d owed his brilliant eureka moment to a worm, so Isaac invented his famous story to reflect his self-perceived extreme cleverness – and history is written by the successful as we all know, which is why all school children are told Isaac Newton’s story.  But you can be sure that the worm world knows the truth of the matter.

The moral of this story is – the worm is a very clever chappie/chapess, and don’t ever forget it.

This short story has, once again, been prompted by Shafali’s brilliant cue art as above.

Does anyone else think that Shafali’s version of Isaac Newton looks very similar to Brian May from Queen?

Creativity Carnival – The Handcuffs

Shall I, Shan’t I?

This piece of writing (poem, verse) is in response to Shafali’s prompt of last week.  Click here to see her blog and her wonderful art work.

handcuffs-and-rose-pen-and-ink-drawings-for-creativity-carnival

Shall I, Shan’t I
Can I, Can’t I
Should I, Shouldn’t I
Will I, Won’t I
I am only constrained by the shackles in my own mind
I alone have the power to allow my mind its freedom
I have the key to these shackles
Am I brave enough to free my mind
To see where it will take me
To plumb the depths
To scale the heights
To discover the limitless possibilities
Of freedom

Wednesday Writings

The many faces of life

This little musing/verse/piece of writing has, yet again, been inspired by one of Shafali’s pen and ink drawings.  Please pop over and take a look at her artwork, so talented and I’m so envious of her talent and so pleased that she shares it with us 🙂

faces-of-women-pen-and-ink-drawings-for-creativity-carnivalWho can say we are, each of us, single entities on this earth
Are we not all exposed to different experiences
Do we not tend to make sense of them differently at different times in our lives
Surely they then shape our thoughts and attitudes as we grow

Our experiences then must also shape our personalities as we age
As, surely, we all exhibit ‘good’ and ‘bad traits
But who is to say what is good and what is bad, what is right and what is wrong
Only we ourselves can decide those questions to our own satisfaction

Do we not all hide something of ourselves from view
Are we not all presenting the illusion of the self we want the world to see
And, if that is true, does that make us bad or does it make us sensitive
For do we not want to protect those around us from our worst selves

A young girl at sixteen – fresh faced and innocent looking in her youth
May, at twenty seven, be hiding behind a mask of paints and powders to keep her young
For our society is critical of women’s ageing – we don’t feel secure in our growing maturity
Yet our experiences shape who we are and show on the faces we so assiduously hide

With age comes knowledge and knowledge is power
If I want to paint my face with paints and powders I will – if not, I won’t
I will be who I want to be each and every day that I live
For my life is constantly changing – and my life shows on my face

Wednesday Writings

Hidden Murder

Another short story using Shafali’s beautiful pen and ink drawings as a prompt.  Please visit her site to see her wonderful drawings.

pen-and-ink-drawing-the-gun-creativity-carnival-shafaliMonday 11th May 2015

It was exactly one week since Jane Meadows had moved into the ground floor flat of a lovely old Victorian house, and six more days before she had to go back to work.  During the past week she had steadily worked through the pile of packing boxes, which held all her earthly possessions, and found every item a place in her new home.  It was time to tackle the garden, or forest as she termed it which, she had been delighted to learn, belonged to the downstairs flat – her flat.  No-one else had access to it so it was hers to do with as she liked.

Stepping out of the French doors, which led from her sitting room to the outside world, she stood and surveyed the rest of her territory.  The grass was at least three feet high in places whilst there was a massive laurel bush which had run rampant over the years and taken over most of the end of the garden.  This would certainly have to come out as it blocked the light which, in turn, failed to reach the lovely sitting room.  Jane had plans for her garden: a patio where she could sit of an evening sipping a glass of wine or two, a border round the edges of the garden, a small fish pond and eventually a summer house where she was planning to write her novel when the muse eventually spoke to her.  But first she had to clear the site.  Jane, not one for standing around looking at work which needed to be done, had already organised a team to help her.  Her two brothers, Jeff and Kevin, were due to arrive in the next ten minutes and she’d decided that they could make a start on the laurel bush.   Read more

Wednesday Writings

Treasured Memories

This week’s Wednesday Writings has, again, been inspired by one of Shafali’s drawings.  This week it’s a Mystery Chest, though it’s inspired me to open up the memory chest in my mind and delve in to see what treasures I could find there.  Too many to write about, as it happens, so I’ve had to shorten it, edit it and keep it to my childhood years – so long ago now that I often forget the simple joys that being a child brought.

creativity-carnival-blogging-event-for-bloggers-the-mystery-treasure-chest-pen-and-ink-artPlease do pop over to Shafali’s blog to have a look at her beautiful artwork.

Making daisy chains on a warm bright day
Sitting down at my grandmother’s feet
The grass, spread around me like a sumptuous quilt
Studded with thousands of tiny flowers, so neat

Read more

Wednesday Writings

The gathering

creativity-carnival-blogging-event-for-bloggers-the-bell-pen-and-ink (2)

The second of Shafali’s beautiful writing prompts ‘The Bell’ can be found here.

Over 10,000 years ago, when the bell was forged, it had been imbued with a form of magic – the kind of magic that makes the world a better place over time; the kind of magic that helps to heal the wounds of war, hate, tragedy, grief and strife.  The bell was not the only one of its kind, there were others dispersed  throughout the different countries, each one protecting the people who resided therein, ensuring the spread of human warmth, compassion and kindness.

The magical power residing in these bells was protected by the faerie folk who laboured hard to ensure that love and compassion would be amongst humankind’s greatest assets, the ones which would ensure the continuation of both the world itself, and everything else that lived its life upon it.

Unfortunately, love and compassion, kindness and thoughtfulness, the main constituents which humans require to ensure the world’s continued existence, did not extend to every human being in the world.  The faerie folk had failed to give any thought to this possibility and, thus, had brought about the ruination of their own existence whilst ensuring the eventual destruction of the beautiful gift that had been bestowed upon all living things – the world they live in.

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Thursday Thoughts

The Bequest

This morning I thought I’d have a look at recent posts to see if I could find something inspirational to write about quickly.  This is not something I’ve ever really done before and I was curious to see how I would feel about it.

One blogger I follow has posted a weekly event called Creativity Carnival where the inspiration is a drawing she has created and posted.  I’ve copied the drawing below – she’s very talented :-).  Please click on the link to take a look at her site.

creativity-carnival-blogging-event-for-bloggers-pocket-watch-pen-and-ink1Louis stood looking down at his grandfather’s coffin.  Tears were pricking at the corner of his eyes as he muttered his last goodbye and threw in his symbolic handful of dirt.  ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …..’ rumbled on the minister in that heavy, tuneless way that ministers do.  Louis wasn’t listening, he was thinking of the last time he had seen his grandfather, the last words he, Louis, had angrily shouted at him and the look of hurt on his beloved grandfather’s face.  Even as Louis had slammed the front door on the way out of the house he had longed to go back and tell his grandfather that he was sorry, that he hadn’t meant what he’d said, that he loved him and always would.  But he hadn’t gone back.

Too late now.  That chance had slipped him by.  His anger had clouded his mind and his pride had refused to yield.   If only he could have that time again, to go back and right the wrong he had done, the hurt he had caused.  Regret sits in the heart forever, whilst anger is quickly forgotten.

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