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The Lone Ranger
07-11-2006, 02:43 PM
I read this story about a year ago and liked it. So, I thought I’d share. The story, so far as I know, does not refer to any actual persons, but I like its message.


Some years ago in Japan, a particularly gifted young swordsman, Ichiro, was nearing completion of his training at a school of swordsmanship. The Master of the school took Ichiro aside and told him, “There is nothing further I can teach you, but I am recommending you to train with Master Imai.” Ichiro was greatly pleased at this, for Master Imai was widely regarded as the finest instructor of swordsmanship in all of Japan. Few students managed to complete his training, but those who did were universally regarded as the finest swordsmen in Japan.

On the appointed day, Ichiro arrived at the home of Master Imai and presented his letter of recommendation. Master Imai read the letter carefully and without comment, then invited Ichiro to the dojo that they might spar. They sparred for a time, but Master Imai made no comments on Ichiro’s technique, nor did he offer any suggestions as to how he might improve it. When Ichiro grew impatient and asked Master Imai what he thought, Imai Sensei only replied, “You have much to learn.” He would say no more.

At the end of his first day with Imai Sensei, Ichiro was horrified to discover that his assigned sleeping area was with the servants.


To Ichiro’s surprise, he was awakened early the next morning by Imai Sensei. Instead of taking him to the dojo, Imai Sensei took Ichiro to the kitchen. He told Ichiro that he must scrub the floor, then cook breakfast, and then wash the dishes. Ichiro was aghast, for this was the work of peasants, not samurai, but he obeyed.

After Ichiro finished scrubbing the floor, Imai Sensei told him that he had done a very poor job, and insisted that he do the task all over again.



For months this went on. Each day, instead of teaching Ichiro anything about swordplay, Imai Sensei would insist that he scrub the floors, cook the meals, and clean the dishes. At first, Imai Sensei would criticize his work harshly and insist that he re-do almost every task until it was perfect. Over time, despite his resentment at being forced to do “peasant work,” Ichiro realized it was easier to the job carefully and correctly, so that he wouldn’t have to repeat it. The first time Imai Sensei complemented him on a job well done, Ichiro felt immensely pleased. In time, Ichiro learned to perform his assigned tasks efficiently and without complaint, and to take pleasure in having done his tasks well.

Ichiro also eventually came to realize that the servants, though mere peasants, were intelligent and thoughtful people, just as was he, and that they had hopes and dreams, just as did he. He observed that they took as much pleasure in doing their assigned tasks well as did he, and that when they were not working, they enjoyed walking in the woods, reading, playing music, visiting with friends and family, and other such “ennobling” activities. The peasants taught him to perform his custodial duties efficiently and well, and soon Imai Sensei was complimenting him on how well he performed the tasks.



One day, as Ichiro was scrubbing the floor, Imai Sensei pulled out his bokken (a wooden sword used for sparring) and struck Ichiro with it repeatedly, giving Ichiro many painful bruises. Imai Sensei then walked away as if nothing had happened.

Ichiro was furious at having been attacked without warning or provocation, and he was also humiliated at having been caught off-guard so easily. He vowed to be more alert, so as not to be caught off-guard again.

Over the next several weeks, this pattern repeated itself. When he least expected it, Imai Sensei would appear as if from nowhere, attack Ichiro, and then walk away as if nothing had happened. He would even burst into Ichiro’s bedchamber at night when Ichiro was trying to sleep and attack him mercilessly.


Ichiro grew so afraid of being attacked that he jumped at every sound. He could not sleep at night, expecting an attack to come at any time. His work, which had been performed perfectly, became sloppy because he was unable to concentrate. On many occasions, Imai Sensei would express his dissatisfaction at Ichiro’s work and force him to re-wash the floor or re-wash the dishes.

Eventually, Ichiro decided that he was doing far more harm to himself through his constant fear of attack than Imai Sensei could possibly do to him. He began to relax. He remained vigilant against attack, but he no longer felt fear or anxiety. He found that when his fear and anxiety were conquered, he could perform his assigned tasks to perfection, while still remaining vigilant against attack.


One day, Ichiro was washing the dishes when Imai Sensei appeared as if from nowhere and attacked him. Ichiro calmly drew his bokken, parried the attack, and then went back to washing the dishes as if nothing had happened.

Imai Sensei smiled.


“What have you learned in your time with me?” Imai Sensei asked.

Ichiro thought for a moment, then replied. “I have learned that there is no dishonor or indignity in manual labor, and that there is pleasure to be derived from doing your work well, even if the work is not glamorous. I have learned that just because a person was born ‘lower’ than I, this does not mean that he is less intelligent or capable. I have also learned that while it is important to always be aware of my surroundings, if I let fear and anxiety control me, I will be unable to deal with everyday tasks, much less unexpected crises.”

Imai Sensei handed him a certificate of graduation.




Any stories you’d like to share?

Cheers,

Michael

ms_ann_thrope
07-11-2006, 03:05 PM
:applaud: What a lovely story to start the workday! Thanks for sharing, Michael.

BDS
07-11-2006, 04:59 PM
Quinton's Pony

Quinton was a little boy who didn’t have anything he wanted, and didn’t want anything he had. Oh, he had lots of things – toys and games and books – but he didn’t want any of them. He also wanted lots of things, but he didn’t have any of them.

Whenever there was something Quinton wanted, he would fuss and whine and say, “But I REALLY WANT this paint set” or “I REALLY WANT this bicycle.” Usually, Quinton’s parents (who spoiled him) would buy Quinton whatever he wanted.

But every time Quinton’s parents bought Quinton something, a curious thing happened. As soon as Quinton had the thing, he didn’t want it any more. He always wanted something else.

This annoyed Quinton’s mom and dad. “Quinton,” his mom asked him, “How come you always say you want something, and kick and fuss and whine, but when we get it for you, you don’t want it any more. You always want something else.”

“I don’t know, mommy,” said Quinton. “But right now the onliest thing I want is a pony.”

“A pony!?” said his mom. “Where would we keep a pony?”

“We could keep it in the back yard,” said Quinton.

“A pony is out of the question,” said the mom. “And that’s final!”

But it wasn’t final. That night when Quinton’s dad got home, Quinton said, “Daddy, the onliest thing I want is a pony. Please, please, please can I have a pony?”

“Your mom would never let you have a pony,” said the dad. “Besides, where would you keep it.”

“I could keep it in the back yard. And I think mommy would let me have one if it was OK with you.”

“Well, it’s not OK with me. Besides, whenever you want something, once we get it for you, you don’t want it any more.”

“But I REALLY want a pony,” said Quinton. “A pony is the onliest thing I really, really want.” Quinton was old enough to know that there is no such word as “onliest”, but he liked saying it anyway. It was part of his strategy.

“You REALLY wanted your bicycle and your baseball mitt and your hamster, too,” said the dad. “But now that you have them, you don’t want them any more.”

“But that’s different,” said Quinton. “I REALLY, REALLY, REALLY want a pony.” And Quinton was so sad when he thought about his pony and how much he wanted it that great, salty tears slid down his face until he licked them off with his tongue. Quinton really, really, really did want a pony.

“Don’t cry, Quinton,” said his dad, and he picked Quinton up and gave him a hug. But Quinton started crying harder than ever.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “I really, really, really want a pony.”

Just then, Quinton’s mom came into the room. “Why is Quinton crying?” she asked.

“He really, really, really wants a pony,” said the dad. But because of the sarcastic way his dad said it, Quinton started crying harder than ever.

“Oh, Quinny, don’t cry,” said the mom, taking Quinton from the dad and giving him a hug. “But a pony isn’t practical.”

Quinton said nothing. He just climbed down out of his mother’s arms and walked very slowly toward his room, staring at the floor and weeping as though his heart would break.

********************


Four days later, Quinton, his mom, and his dad drove out to the stables to look at ponies. “Remember,” said the mom, “we’re just going to look. There’s no way that we’ll get a pony today.”

“I’ll remember,” said Quinton. He wasn’t quite sure he could be good and not cry, because he had never in his life wanted anything half so much as he wanted a pony. Also, he’d been crying for the last four days in a row and he’d gotten rather used to it. It seemed to be working – why stop now?

There were three different ponies for sale at the stables. One was a chestnut pony. Another was a gray, with a long mane. The third was dappled black and gray, and had big, brown eyes. As soon as Quinton saw the dappled pony, he knew that he wanted it more than anything in the world.

“Oh, mommy,” he said. “Look at that beautiful pony. That pony is the onliest pony I want in the whole world.”

“It is a pretty pony,” said Quinton’s dad, and just then the pony raced around the corral, snorted, shook his head, and trotted right up to Quinton. “But Quinton, it takes a lot of work to take care of a pony. You have to feed it, and clean up after it, and train it, and exercise it every day.”

“If I had that spotted pony, which is the onliest thing I really, really want,” said Quinton gravely, “I’d take the best care of it.”

“But Quinton,” said the mom, “are you sure you will want the pony after we get it for you? Every time we get something for you, you SAY you want it, but once you have it you don’t like it any more.”

“That’s different, mom!” said Quinton. “This time I REALLY, REALLY, REALLY want this pony.” And Quinton looked so sad, just thinking about how badly he wanted the pony, that his mom didn’t know what to do.

******************************

Ten days later, Quinton said to his dad, “Daddy, I’m bored. There’s nothing fun to do.”

“Why don’t you go for a ride on your pony?” said the dad. The pony had been delivered just two days earlier, and a little stable had been erected in Quinton’s back yard. Quinton had begged and cajoled, fussed and pleaded, hugged and kicked, but he had finally gotten his pony.

“That’s boring,” said Quinton. “I don’t even like my stupid pony.”

“Well, if you don’t want to go for a ride, why don’t you clean your pony’s stable, like you promised you would a million times.”

“I refuse,” said Quinton. “I don’t even want that pony. That pony is boring.”

“But Quinton,” said the dad, “you begged and cried and pleaded and were impossible to live with for weeks because you wanted a pony. Now you say you don’t want it any more? Why did you fuss for it so much?”

“I thought I wanted it, but now I don’t. I refuse to clean the stable, and I don’t even want that stupid pony any more.”

“OK, Quinton,” said the Dad. “In that case, I am going to shoot your pony and sell him to the glue factory.” The dad was hoping that this would scare Quinton and make him say he still really wanted the pony.

“Go right ahead,” said Quinton. “I certainly don’t want that pony. Go ahead and shoot it. I don’t care.”

So the dad went up to the attic, where he kept a rifle. He brought the rifle downstairs, so Quinton could see that he was loading it. “Are you sure you don’t want your pony any more” the dad asked Quinton.

“I’m sure,” said Quinton, in a bored, sing-song voice. “I said I was sure, didn’t I.”

So Quinton’s dad went down to the back yard and shot the pony right between the eyes. The next day a truck came from the glue factory and picked up the dead pony and carted it away.

***************************

Three days later, Quinton came up to his dad and gave him a big hug. “I love you, Daddy,” he said. “You know what? I really want a Sony Play Station. The onliest thing I want is a Sony Play Station.”

ms_ann_thrope
07-11-2006, 08:55 PM
:glare:

beyelzu
07-11-2006, 11:30 PM
from the book A Game of Thrones by George RR Martin.

"Syrio Forel was first sword to the Sealord of Braavos, and are you knowing how that came to pass?"-Syrio

"You were the finest swordsman in the city."- Arya

"Just so, but why? Other men were stronger, faster, younger, why was Syrio Forel the best? I will tell you now." He touched the tip of his little finger lightly to his eyelid. "The seeing, the true seeing, that is the heart of it."

"Hear me. The ships of Braavos sail as far as the winds blow, to lands strange and wonderful, and when they return their captains fetch queer animals to the Sealord's menagerie. Such animals as you have never seen, stiped horses, great spotted things with necks as long as stilts, hairy mouse-pigs as big as cows, stinging manticores, tigers that carry their cubs in a pouch, terrible walking lizards with scythes for claws. Syrio Forel has seen these things."

"On the day I am speaking of, the first sword was newly dead, and the Sealord sent for me. Many bravos had come to him, and as many had been sent away, none could say why. When I came into his presence, he was seated, and in his lap was a fat yellow cat. He told me that one of his captains had brought the beast to him, from an island beyond the sunrise. 'Have you ever seen her like?' he asked of me."

"And to him I said, 'Each night in the alleys of Braavos I see a thousand like him,' and the Sealord laughed, and that day I was named the first sword."

Arya screwed up her face. "I don't understand."

Syrio clicked his teeth together. "The cat was an ordinary cat, no more. The others expected a fabulous beast, so that is what they saw. How large it was, they said. It was no larger than any other cat, only fat from indolence, for the Sealord fed it from his own table. Wha curious small ears, they said. Its ears had been chewed away in kitten fights. And it was plainly a tomcat, yet the Sealord said 'her,' and that is what the others saw. Are you hearing?"

Arya thought about it. "You saw what was there."

"Just so. Opening your eyes is all that is needing. The heart lies and head plays tricks with us, but the eyes see true. Look with your eyes. Hear with your ears. Taste with your mouth. Smell with your nose. Feel with your skin. Then comes the thinking, afterward, and in that way knowing the truth."

anyway great book, good point, and everyone should read the series, Song of Fire and Ice.

BDS
07-12-2006, 12:43 AM
:glare:

Are you glaring at my story or my moral?

BDS -- writing for post-modern children.

Crumb
07-12-2006, 12:46 AM
It was an annoying story BDS. It just makes me want to drop kick a few kids...and their parents.

Does it have a deep moral that I am missing?

BDS
07-12-2006, 12:53 AM
It was an annoying story BDS. It just makes me want to drop kick a few kids...and their parents.

Does it have a deep moral that I am missing?

The characters are certainly annoying. As for the moral... I have no idea what it is, although I'm pretty sure there is one.

slimshady2357
07-12-2006, 10:58 AM
It was an annoying story BDS. It just makes me want to drop kick a few kids...and their parents.

Does it have a deep moral that I am missing?

The characters are certainly annoying. As for the moral... I have no idea what it is, although I'm pretty sure there is one.

Well, what I learned was: Don't read any long stry posts by BDS.

I'm sure it's a lesson that will serve me well.

BDS
07-12-2006, 04:45 PM
And what I learned is: don't spend any effort writing long story posts for this crowd.

One question for Ms ann thrope (who liked Michael’s story, but glared at mine): Who is more despicable: a 5-year-old boy who doesn’t want anything he has, only things he doesn’t have, or a grown teacher who beats his sleeping students with a club? Or is it OK to beat your sleeping students with a club as long as the beatings fit into the “grammar” of the story, and lead to the reader’s expectations being fulfilled?

Oh well. I still sort of like my story. It’s no great work of art (it’s a post in a thread, for goodness sake), but I suppose it was worth writing (if not worth posting).

BDS
07-12-2006, 08:12 PM
It was an annoying story BDS. It just makes me want to drop kick a few kids...and their parents.

Does it have a deep moral that I am missing?


Since you ask, the moral of my story is that people like to be manipulated by stories, even when the manipulation is facile and dishonest. Any reasonable person (lacking preconceptions about the grammar of a martial arts parable) would think that the Master in Michael’s story is a complete jerk. He beats his students (even when they are sleeping). He refuses to explain why he beats them (until the end of the story). Any reasonable student would have simply left the school, and probably headed directly to the nearest doctor to have some broken bones set. If the student in the story had done so, those reading Michael’s story would probably have found it “annoying”, as they found my story “annoying”.

But the reader simply reads on and accepts the brutality of the master, and the docile acceptance of the student, because he recognizes the conventions of the genre, and expects a positive, feel-good “payoff” at the end of the story. In this respect, the reader resembles the docile student who (incredibly) accepts the beatings.

What I tried to do with my story is appear to follow similar conventions (it isn’t a martial arts story, but the opening line sets it up as a moral parable). The situation is expounded in sentimental and moralistic terms. Except instead of manipulating the situation into some forced and positive moral, I tried to make the story develop more naturally, and end less positively.

The reader, expecting the payoff, feels betrayed. So (like Crumb) he is annoyed. I was hoping that the reader wouldn’t SIMPLY be annoyed, but would be entertained and intrigued as well. Oh, well. I guess my story accomplished the easy task (annoying people), but failed in the more difficult one of entertaining and intriguing.

At least I tried.

p.s. I'm not knocking Michael's story. I sort of like it.

ms_ann_thrope
07-13-2006, 05:53 AM
One question for Ms ann thrope (who liked Michael’s story, but glared at mine): Who is more despicable: a 5-year-old boy who doesn’t want anything he has, only things he doesn’t have, or a grown teacher who beats his sleeping students with a club? Or is it OK to beat your sleeping students with a club as long as the beatings fit into the “grammar” of the story, and lead to the reader’s expectations being fulfilled?Actually, the most despicable character in any of the stories posted were Quinton's parents. And I'm sorry, but like Crumb, I still don't see a moral in your story. None of the characters learned anything, and your readers only "learned" that the characters were assholes.

As for the propriety of teachers "beating" their students, I do not think that is a wholly fair characterization of what transpires in Michael's story. Ichiro has voluntarily come to Master Imai for advanced training as a specialized warrior. Challenging the physical, emotional, and psychological boundaries of such a "student" is hardly unheard of and is, I believe, essential to mastery of such a discipline. The training required by any of the military Special Operation Forces (Green Berets, Rangers, SEAL teams, etc.) is not dissimilar in those regards, so Master Imai's training techniques seem entirely proper and effective for achieving the desired objective. Viewed in this context, Master Imai's methods are not inappropriate.

If a second grade teacher went around with a club, beating his 7-year old students for playground infractions... that would be a problematic context. That was not the issue presented in Michael's story, however.

BDS
07-13-2006, 04:47 PM
. The training required by any of the military Special Operation Forces (Green Berets, Rangers, SEAL teams, etc.) is not dissimilar in those regards, so Master Imai's training techniques seem entirely proper and effective for achieving the desired objective. Viewed in this context, Master Imai's methods are not inappropriate.
.

I don't know how appropriate beating the student while he is asleep is.

It would not be inappropriate for the student to quit and check into the hospital, certainly. My theory is the reader would find the story "annoying" if that happened, because it would lack a moral payoff.

Of course I know that the characters in my story are unlikable. That's the point of the story. I do think that the story would have been improved if I had spent a little more time making both the parents and Quinton a little MORE likable (despite the fact that in the end nobody will be able to like them). I tried to do that, depicting the parents as affectionate, for example, but obviously failed.