Day Nineteen - Failure
My grandfather was a journalist for forty five years. On the day of his retirement he gave me a box of matches.
He led me on a long walk into the hills and we walked quietly together. It has been a long day for both of us, his retirement, my first day on the job. We followed the same 'secret' paths he taken me on since I was old enough to walk these hills at his side, nearly always silent, enjoying the air, the spectacle of nature, the scents, and each others quiet company. This day, strangely, he'd stopped unexpectedly. I turned and walked back the few metres and raised an eyebrow. His eyes were bright, shrewd and he inclined his head slightly, flicking his eyes off the path. I looked towards the small wooded crest of an otherwise bare hill. I shrugged, confused, and he threw me a smile and set off towards the trees.
We broke through, to a clearing I had not visited for many, many years and again raised an eyebrow. It had been a long, dry autumn; throughout the hills, the woodlands had left a thick blanket of crispy leaves. Within this particular clearing leaves had been meticulously raked into around thirty very distinct, very defined piles. My grandfather strode to the center of the arrayed piles and smiled again waving me over. The sun was dipping towards the distant ranges and his deep voice produced short, clouds of mist that broiled in the cooling air and disappeared in the fading light.
"This is Journalism son."
He waved his arms towards the piles.
"I've always despised the idea that a journalist wields a spade and that we dig and we dig for our stories. All my career I wielded something else. "
He pulled out a box of matches from his pocket, and with one hand he'd opened it, produced a match and flicked it across the box sending an angry burning wasp spinning through the air. It landed between two piles of leaves and spluttered away for a few moments before dying on the bare ground.
"Forty five years ago, I was a pretty average reporter. Terrible! Fresh out of school, desperate to set these stories and my career alight. I wanted to burn brighter than my peers and I chased stories like I chased your grandmother, desperately."
His hand moved swiftly and within moments he's flicked three matches off, randomly into the air. Two fell and died, whilst the third landed on the edge of a leaf mound. A leaf caught and it crackled heartily for a few seconds, the flame licked across the pile and within minutes it was consumed.
"When you chase a lead as madly as I did, you'll get lucky every so often. It's pretty hit and miss and, if you're honest with yourself, you know that you've not achieved much."
He closed one eye and his tongue poked out the side of his mouth. Concentrating now, he, one by one sent off three more matches, little twirling swords of flame. They each landed on one slightly larger pile, which on the third attempt caught and took quickly. As it burned I noticed it the sticks buried inside, the small log. They caught alight and burned for quite some time, the warmth was not unwelcome in the cooling dusk.
"With time you'll understand that some stories are worth spending more time on. That with care, and attention, you set something blazing that lights up everything around you. You unleash a spectacle that people really notice. It will sustain you and your career for sometime.
I love you boy, you've always made me proud..."
He held the box of matches towards me and I reached for them. He slapped them into my hand and held them there tightly for just a moment.
"..now show me what kind of journalist you're going to be."
I look at him for a moment, looked at my matches. The clearly was barely lit now, by the small fire and in that dim light I studied the piles of leaves. Ten minutes passed in silence. I pondered longer before the smile came to my lips. My grandfather watched as I opened the box of matches. It was almost empty, barely ten matches left inside. I took one out, dragged it along the side and it spluttered to life. I held it aloft for a moment, judging the distance, and then slid it back inside the box. I cocked back my arm and threw it hard. As the box spluttered to life, blazing in mid air I heard my grandfather whisper, ever so quietly:
"That's my boy"
It landed in a tiny pile of leaves at the base of small tree. It had died some years ago; the ring of missing bark around its trunk was decades old. The box burned spitted and hissed, and the surrounding leaves soon crackled and popped. The flames burned right to the base and into the dry hollowed trunk, which I imagine my grandfather had stuffed with leaves, twigs and sticks for it didn't just set alight. It blazed. I felt his arm around my shoulder and we watched as the flames grew to a roar, shooting up the inside of the trunk , shooting clouds of embers and great tongues of flame from a split far up. Soon the wood burned red hot and its heat was so intense we had to step back. It fell not long thereafter, with a thunderous crack. With a cacophony of whirling sparks and a great whoosh it split open, sending large chunks of burning red coals spilling across the remaining leaves.
He reached deep into his jacket and pulled out a packet of matches, thin, weathered and old. He smiles. We watch the fire burn itself out for hours, and in the cold still of deep night we silently walked home.
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Edited this tripe out, what a nasty late night cobbling together of nothingness. I realise now that I was ripping something off... Fight Club? grrrrrrrr :
The heat and light was incredible, and forever inscribed into my memory is the image of my grandfather turning to me and, with one hand on my shoulder, flames reflecting in his eyes, voice deep and strong, he said
"If you aren't afraid to get burned, and you risk it all...sometimes, just sometimes... you can set the world on fire."
We watch the fire burn itself out for hours, and in the cold still of deep night me silently walked home together. A moment before we opened the door to my furious grandmother, he stopped me and gave me a packet of matches, thin, weathered and old.
"I kept it for forty five years. Now it's yours"
----
Three days later he was dead. When I received the phone call from my mother, I was holding that box of matches in my hand. She told me that he'd been in an accident. He was driving a new car he'd bought as for his retirement, a present to himself and the police report detailed how he'd been speeding through an intersection when he collided with a truck, dying instantly.
I held those matches as my grandmother clung to me weeping at the funeral. Through her tears her cracked voice choked over and over
"He just never sped, never in forty three years. He can't be gone, he can't be gone"
Six months later, they were in my pocket as I lit small fires, breaking small stories, enough to keep me in the job, to keep the wolves at bay. My grandmother passed away that summer, grief taking too greater toll, she fell sick and could not find the heart to get better.
It was a grueling eighteen months that followed. I chased a story that wanted to be left alone. I lost my partner, the love of my life, through long hours of neglect while I researched. I was beaten up twice times by thugs hired by the company I was investigating, the first time was a warning. The second was...something else. Late one night walking home, three of them jumped me in a dark residential street, before I realised it I had two serious knife wounds in my chest and was one the ground gasping. Two joggers, random strangers, saw them from a distance and a moment of humbling courage they ripped out two letter boxes from across the road and rushed screaming towards us. Stunned momentarily the assailants were battered and beaten significantly before the fled into the night. One would later be picked up by police in a hospital several suburbs away with a broken arm and jaw. They couldn't tie him to the company and with some fine lawyers he was freed lack of evidence. Harassment since then was a daily occurrence. Death threats, midnight phonecalls and more than one broken window.
That autumn I visited my grandfathers grave. I didn't take flowers, I took a newspaper and a box of matches. The front page was an article about a leading automotive firm that had produced a line of cars that had a software fault. In very peculiar situations the software would accelerate for a few seconds at full throttle. It was very rare, but they'd discovered it after rolling the machines out to dealers nationwide. The likelihood of the bug occurring was fantastically low, but it was a popular model, especially amongst older drivers. Despite continual advice from the software engineers the business only upgraded cars produced after the first run. It was unlikely that a resulting crash could be traced back the business and the low risk against the cost of recall wasn't feasible. It was also not feasible that a young man who dreamedoften of a burning tree would be able to gather
THIS IS SHIT I'M GOING TO BED. NO I'M NOT GOING TO READ OVER IT AND FIX IT OR FINISH IT. IT'S CRAP
TESTAMENT TO MY FAILURE. THAT IS ALL. POOOOOP