Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Mother by Norman Duncan (essential reading txt) 📖
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blankly. "Home--with me?"
"Oh, yes, mother! Let me go home. Quick I Let us go.... The curate says I know best. I went straight to him--yesterday--and told him. And he said I was wiser than he.... And I said good-bye. Don't send me back. For, oh, I want to go home--with you!"
She opened her arms. At that moment a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the world. For the first time the child caught sight of her face--the sweet, real face of his mother: now radiant, touched by the finger of the Good God Himself.
"Is it you?" he whispered.
"I am your mother."
He leaped into her arms--found her wet eyes with his lips. "Mother!" he cried.
"My son!" she said.
He turned again to the flaming cross--a little smile of defiance upon his lips. But the defiance passed swiftly: for it was then revealed to him that his mother was good; and he knew that what the cross signified would continue with him, wherever he went, that goodness and peace might abide within his heart. Hand in hand, while the thunder still rolled and the rain came driving with the wind, they hurried away towards the Box Street tenement....
Let them go! Why not? Let them depart into their world! It needs them. They will glorify it. Nor will they suffer loss. Let them go! Love flourishes in the garden of the world we know. Virtue is forever in bloom. Let them go to their place! Why should we wish to deprive the unsightly wilderness of its flowers? Let the tenderness of this mother and son continue to grace it!
THE END
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"Oh, yes, mother! Let me go home. Quick I Let us go.... The curate says I know best. I went straight to him--yesterday--and told him. And he said I was wiser than he.... And I said good-bye. Don't send me back. For, oh, I want to go home--with you!"
She opened her arms. At that moment a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the world. For the first time the child caught sight of her face--the sweet, real face of his mother: now radiant, touched by the finger of the Good God Himself.
"Is it you?" he whispered.
"I am your mother."
He leaped into her arms--found her wet eyes with his lips. "Mother!" he cried.
"My son!" she said.
He turned again to the flaming cross--a little smile of defiance upon his lips. But the defiance passed swiftly: for it was then revealed to him that his mother was good; and he knew that what the cross signified would continue with him, wherever he went, that goodness and peace might abide within his heart. Hand in hand, while the thunder still rolled and the rain came driving with the wind, they hurried away towards the Box Street tenement....
Let them go! Why not? Let them depart into their world! It needs them. They will glorify it. Nor will they suffer loss. Let them go! Love flourishes in the garden of the world we know. Virtue is forever in bloom. Let them go to their place! Why should we wish to deprive the unsightly wilderness of its flowers? Let the tenderness of this mother and son continue to grace it!
THE END
Imprint
Publication Date: 06-01-2010
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