New Horizons

A story based on three words: rugged, peaceful and family. 

                                                      Chapter 1

The waves crashed against a rugged cliff face. A small boy looked over the peaceful horizon and watched anxiously as he took in the vast ocean for the last time. Johny could hear his mother calling his name and he turned away to hurry back. 

                  “Come on now Johny. Grab your things we’ve got to go.”

                  “Yes Mom,” replied Johny. He quickly ran into his house to grab his brown and orange bag. 

                  “Mom…” Said Johny. “Why do we need to leave?” His question came from an honest tone but a defiant heart. 

                  “Because dear…it’s the season for leaving. Sometimes the world calls us to go. But don’t worry Johny; a good season is coming.”

                  Johny was a young boy who was intelligent beyond his years. He learned to read at a young age and read every book that his mother owned. 

                  “Now jump in.” Johny’s mother held open the door to a tightly packed sedan.

As the car moved around the bend towards the main drag, Johny watched his old house disappear for good. For a few moments Johny let his tears fall while he watched the coastline. His tears were heathy, and they soothed him as he left his old home. Soon Johny was sleeping gently in the back of his old sedan. 

                                                      Chapter 2

Many years had passed since the last move.  Johny reminisced over his childhood while he looked over a stubborn landscape full of empty promise to produce a crop. Johny was now a strong eighteen; his mother aged heavily in the past ten years and another move was on the horizon. 

During these difficult times Johny’s mother hardened herself to brace for an unforgiving world. No one could have known that the weather would be unfavorable. Johny could not pull the crops from the ground. Only nature can invite the green to grow. And now the green would not. 

However, difficult times do something more than create a stubborn exterior. The difficult times created a bond between Johny and his mother. The years where heavier than what Johny and his mother could carry, and they had no choice but to surrender to gravity. When this happened, nature provided roots. Amid their hardship they found the earth held them nicely. 

Johny looked over the expansive horizon for one last time. In this moment John embraced the barren expanse and thanked the sky for all he had. 

                  “Mom!” Called John

Mother came out of the house with the last piece of furniture and John grabbed his brown and orange bag—now with patches on it. This time John took the wheel, and the old sedan pulled away to seek new places.

A Magic Bazooka

(A story created with three words from a brother: Joyfulness, Bazooka, and Russia)

In cold Russia…and—I would like to add—when I say cold, I mean cold in many areas: climate, mood, and character… the landscape was the coldest it had been in years. The attitudes of the people were colder than what they had been during the Cold War. And everyone exchanged cold shoulders and icy glares with each other. The place was joyless. Everything about this Russian town was wrong.
However, after many years of multi-dimensional coldness, something changed. For no reason anyone could understand, people began to feel happy. The joy crept in sneakily though. Most of the townspeople were so used to cold shoulders and icy glares that the buildup of pleasure in their hearts seemed to disturb them. Suddenly, people were always on the verge of laughing but laboring greatly to restrain their smiles. Just walking through the markets, one could notice people squirming uncomfortably. No one had ever known such joy. And they were afraid to act from such a foreign feeling.
Now, the incident you just witnessed is a conundrum in a small town in Russia. However, this story starts a few hours before this occurrence in a one-bedroom cottage seven kilometers from the town center. This cottage housed a carpenter-father and a wizardish mother. There were also three children: Susan, John, and George. These children, because of their distance from the town were unaffected by the negative cold spirit of its people. In short, these children know how to be joyful. And their joyful curiosities got them into all sorts of mischievous ordeals. The latest one had something to do with the town’s people bubbling up with joy…
One cold and lazy Sunday—when their parents were out—the three children got into their mother’s spell book and father’s carpentry room. The oldest of them all—Susan—began mixing all sorts of concoctions. Some salt, some cat fir, some cinnamon dust, a little of this, and a little of that. The result was a sort of smoky fuel that made one feel all types of goofy and laughy.
While Susan made spells, Gorge—the handiest of them all—made a bazooka from a piece of bamboo. And, the most imaginative of the children—John—sat and watched. While he sat his mind wandered all over. He thought about magic and foreign countries and about what his siblings were doing. Suddenly, out of nowhere, an idea popped into John’s head: a magical bazooka!
The children combined their creative gifts. Once their masterpiece was finished they hurried over to the city. They climbed into the village church steeple and took with them their magical bazooka and potions. Then the fun began. Susan cast a joyful spell on the bazooka and Gorge started firing at the townspeople. At first, people resisted. However, the children went wild with their weaponry. Suddenly, as if a pipe had burst, the people’s thin veil of coldness cracked and everyone started to laugh and dance and tell jokes. On that day the heat of excitement and joy was so great that it melted the snow and raised the town temperature by 20 degrees.
This day is still remembered today in the small Russian town as “Joyful Day”.

A story from three words: Exist, Silky, and Heart

It was an early Sunday, and the sun was late to come up. Normally the sun would rise at exactly 7:00 AM. But today, the sun was too lazy. Mr. sun sat behind a mountain range and lazily snuck his rays over the edge. At the base of the mountain range was a village of farmers. Although a hardworking and practical group of people, they were also hardened. Their existence was void of love and spontaneity. Sharp mountains and a harsh climate carved out a jagged and weathered people. These ridged people existed in an age where time had not been chopped into minutes and days. It was a time where no equations had come around to trap nature into containers. Basically, these people lived in a time where anything was possible, but everything was unpredictable and dangerous too. The severe environment created an intense people. Even the children formed their faces into sharp edges to stay focused on an unpredictable world. Men walked at right angles to ensure they stayed sharp. And the women refrained from dancing because that would distract them from work. 

                  Today all the farmers waited outside their log homes and looked angrily at the lazy sun rays.

“If I could reach you,” said one angry villager “I would let you have it, lazy sun!” 

Another villager shared a similar angry remark towards the sun: 

“Mr. Sun if you don’t come out and shine your warm light, I will climb up there and pour water on you!”

The villagers didn’t know what to do. They needed the sun to shine on their crops. But to make the sun move seemed impossible. There was soon a frenzy of hurling insults at the sun. During the fusion a young child name Spoon decided she would ask the sun what was wrong. After gathering some food and water Spoon began to march towards the steep and jagged slopes that blocked the sun. The little girl was fierce and determined to reach the sun. She hiked day and night. Sometimes, she would get tired and wanted to stop. But instead, she would yell 

“I will reach you sun!” 

Then she would cry, and then she would keep marching. After climbing over a particularly tall and spiky mountains the child could see the sun. Her excitement motivated her to run.  She was low on sleep and food. She was dearly fatigued. But she ran and ran. Unfortunately, even in these strange times, organic organisms couldn’t run forever without food or sleep. Soon Spoon ran completely out of energy and stopped dead. For a moment time froze and the earth admired her hard work. Even a bird that was flying by took a long look at the little girl and paid his respects with a nod of recognition. But then the rules of nature set back in—time started. Spoon dropped to her knees. Then she fell to her face. However, when she fell to her face, something funny happened: Instead of stopping on the hard and unforgiving earth she fell straight through and exited into ‘upside-down world’. Things in this world were odd. From here she could see the world as plainly as it was. She saw how hard the elements had been working to create a world. She saw the wind as it blew against cliff faces to shape the beautiful mountains. Spoon looked over her head and noticed the heart of the world as it strained to make life come to form. The mountains were lonely and so was the wind. She could see it clearly here. At that moment Spoon felt a point in her chest where there used to be nothing. Then she turned to face the sun and it spoke to her. 

“Spoon,” said the sun” I am tired. I have been sending light to this earth for a timeless time and I’m getting tired.”

“What can I do about it” questioned Spoon.

The sun responded: “Do you feel that point in your chest where their used to be nothing?”

“I do” replied Spoon.

“Well,” said the sun “you have been given a heart. It is growing right now. And it will help you to love the mountains and the ground and the sun.”

“What good will that do?” Questioned Spoon. 

“When you have a heart, you will be able to send the mountains and dirt and sun energy to keep going.”

Immediately, Spoon knew what to do. She thanked the sun. She kissed her heart. And she returned to the normal world with a heart in her chest. When she got back to the village people were getting ready to go to war with the sun.  But before they could go Spoon told the villagers what had happened. They listened intently. And when she finished talking, she gave them all a piece of her heart. 

Suddenly they all understood why the sun could not find the strength to rise. They felt love towards the sun. And as they did the sun began to creep its way upwards.  The villagers were so grateful. The sharp edges on their faces began to soften and they declared they must do something to celebrate. They wanted to create a gift that would show their gratitude towards the sun. And they did. The children decided to soften the hard lines on their faces. Soon they made goofy-face and smiled big and wide. The men moved in curves instead of at right angles. And the women began to dance wildly. 

                  With hearts in their chests the whole village began to move in a silky-smooth fashion. Their existence shifted from cold and hard to soft and silky smooth. 

Dear Opa

           My Opa (Dutch for Grandfather) passed away on the 23rd of December at 97 years old (1926-2023). Almost exactly one year ago (December 28, 2022) I visited his brother Johan in Grijpskerk Netherlands, and wrote about our time together. Today I revisited that writing and I want to share it in remembrance of my Opa—Louwe Feitsma.  This is my writing from December 30, 2022. (I have made minor edits since then but it is mostly untouched).

Have you ever had a feeling that was difficult to express? Perhaps an emotion was bubbling up, but you didn’t know how to let it out(?). Sometimes the feeling is a mystery that makes you tilt your head and look at the world from a slightly different angle. I believe that it is important to allow these feelings to move through you. And I think if we don’t allow these feelings to express themselves, they can get caught in our bodies and make us stiff. Today there is a feeling that wants to find its way to form. There is a message that wants to come to life. A certain feeling started to arise most notably two days ago, and I wonder if I can capture it in my writing. Who knows if I can, but I will try.

           I am currently working on a farm in Northern Netherlands with some Dutch relatives. On December 27, 2022, I was handed the keys to the farm. The owner (Heilke Fietsma) and his family took a vacation to Norway; I became responsible for feeding the animals and chopping some wood. On December 28 I got invited to coffee by Heilke’s Father (Johan)—the youngest brother of my Opa. Of course, I accepted the invitation to coffee, and on Wednesday morning, I took a 20-minute bike ride to Johan’s house. I was greeted by a lovely couple and a beautifully decorated house.      

           As we talked over coffee, my interest in my Dutch heritage became apparent and Johan’s wife (Aafka) suggested we visit the farm where my Opa grew up. The farm where my Opa grew up was about 10 minutes by car. Everything in the Netherlands seems closer together and I get to see a lot of history on our 10-minute drive. I saw the road where 8yr old Johan used to walk to school; I saw the church where Johan and his brother Louwe (my Opa) used to attend; and I even learn something about the history of the Netherlands levee system (If it were not for this levee system, 33percent of the Netherlands would be underwater).

Soon we make a turn and head down a long country road. Further down the road to the right is a large farmhouse. As we approached the house, I learn this was the house where my Great-grandfather raised his family. Johan stops the car near the house and his demeanor becomes more serious.

A typical Dutch canal separates the house from the road and red bricks build the farmhouse. The structure holds three large windows that face toward the road. I can feel a heaviness fill the air as Johan turns to my direction and faces his old home.

“That is where the Germans came to our farm.”

He points to a small bridge that stretches over a canal and connects the road to the farmhouse.

I can sense heartache as he recalls what took place behind those three large windows.

“My father had a loudmouth you know…He talked negatively about the German occupation.”

He pauses. (It was not uncommon—in those days—that people who opposed German occupation would be made into an example. That is to say: they would be shot). 

Johan soon continued the story.

“And Louwe—your Opa—was 19. He was supposed to work in a German labor camp.”

By now, my two-day-old memory holds more emotion than specific wording. However, I recall that his voice connected deeper with his message and he got into the spirit of his story. An emotion held by a frozen past seemed burned within him.

“The Germans came around the house and we knew something was wrong.”

For a moment our attention shifted as a car squeezed past us. The car drove on and Johan continued his story.

“Our father and Louwe hid in the cellar there.” Johan pointed to a wall behind three glass windows.

“When the Germans came in…” He paused to build up the courage to speak through the emotion that was choking him.

“When the Germans came in,” He continued, “They locked my pregnant mother and my oldest sister in the bedroom. Then they took Simon (his 17-year-old brother) and demanded that he tell them where his older brother was.”

The air became heavier. Tears came to his eyes.

“They hit him in the head.”

He shrieked and hit his steering wheel. It feels like I can feel his emotion and I swallow a small cry that is creeping up my throat (I can feel it still). 

“You understand!?” He says, “We can’t let this happen!”

The emotion felt too strong and the subject simmers down. For a few moments there was no talking and Johan drove on in silence. Just a few meters down the way he took a right turn and told me a story that the old road held. “It is the road,” he tells me “where your Opa got his first car stuck in the snow—he had to get two horses to pull it out while he sat on the hood of his new automobile.” It is also the road my mother would walk on as a child. (They called it “De kleine zandweg”—”the small sand-road”).

By now it is almost Lunch; we could not be late for lunch. When we got back, we ate a typical Dutch meal of mashed potatoes mixed with vegetables(—its native name is stamppot). After lunch, Johan read me a quote attributed to Einstein.

“The world is a dangerous place to live, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.”

The next day I took a 2-hour drive to visit my Opa Louwe (he is now 96 years old). He has just lost his wife (they were married for 70+ years) and bringing up the past didn’t seem like a good idea. We just drank tea and talked about potato farming.

I wish I could have talked more with my Opa. As I got older he started to lose his ability to speak English. And, when I moved to the Netherlands and learned Dutch he started to lose his hearing.  He wrote a small book about his experience during the war and his time on the potato farm though. (I am reading it now. But very slowly because my Dutch is not very good). Louwe was very smart and wanted to be a lawyer. Unfortunately, his father insisted he keep the family tradition and become a farmer. Opa was part of the first generation to make the switch from horse to tractor in farming. He is also part of a dying breed that lived in close confrontation with the Germans as they occupied much of Europe during the last World War. 

To my Opa: Dear Opa Feitsma. I love you. Thank you for showing me how to woodwork when I was 6 years old—it is a love and hobby that I will take with me and—lord willing—share with my children one day. Thanks for going on bike rides with me. Thanks for the financial support during my years at University. Thanks for the hundreds of cups of coffee and tea. Thank you for the time spent gardening: digging up potatoes I remember best.

This is the way of life. We get old we move on. Who really knows for sure what happens after death(?). But I know that I’m happy to have been a part of your lineage. And I will do my best to make the world a better place.

Speed of light Traveler

Chapter 1: The Spark

In the back of an old and dusty attic lived a vintage typewriter. No one knew where it came from, but everyone knew it lived in the attic. While this typewriter collected dust, printers and laptops came to dominate the world. This typewriter became a decaying piece of history. Sometimes though, artifacts emerge from the dead and take on life in new forms. This typewriter did exactly that—it let go of its stiff keys and drifted. It became a laptop. How this occurred is unknown. But that it happened is a sure fact. Although some would argue against such occurrences, these things do happen. If you cannot accept this claim perhaps you can simply use the tool of trust to hold together the missing link in your understanding. Anyhow, this typewriter was now a laptop. And this laptop belonged to a schoolteacher of about 34yrs old—his name was Bob. And this schoolteacher had a past. I’ll skip for you the details of his story and cut straight to its essence:…
When Bob was young, he had parents who didn’t understand the desires and needs of a child. As a result, deep potential and desires were suppressed inside his guts. Untamed, these energies of desire would force themselves out in different emotional forms. Sometimes it was passion. Sometimes it was grief or love. Sometimes it was an urge to run, and he’d run until his legs gave out. Perhaps you could imagine Bob’s suppression like musical notes trapped in a box. Without the proper space, the music might ooze from the corners of its container and create vulgar noises—the potential was there, but without the space for expression only strange noises will emerge. Bob’s deep attempts at holding in these potentials caused so much pressure inside of him that parts of his biological machinery started to malfunction. At the young age of 34, Bob was facing problems with his seeing and hearing. His eyes and ears didn’t work well and neither did his internal organs—he had diarrhea and heartburn.
However, when so much potential energy is trapped in one space the world will conspire to release it—it’s only a natural phenomenon of nature.
When the energy of that old typewriter fell into his laptop it caused Bob’s fingers to feel slightly itchy and irritable. As he sat on the couch, he shook his hands. And, right outside his living room window, an angel pushed the irritation button of a cab driver that was driving past. The cab’s horn sounded, and Mr. Bob jolted. It so happened that this jolt made him kick out his leg and he hit his shin directly on the bottom of his metal and glass coffee table. Sudenly, an emotion was awoken. It expressed itself in a single word: “fuck!” Bob got up, shook his hands violently, and tried to wiggle out of the pain in his shin. Bob’s expression of raw emotion opened a space in his heart where—for a moment—he could feel the center of his heart and its desire for greatness.
Thus, on this normal winter day, a spark ignited in the heart of a regular degular teacher.

Trusting your heart

There is a knot in my heart. It comes up to choke me whenever I want to do something I find meaningful or important. Today it came up when I wanted to write a blog post. I have endless ideas and thoughts I want to share but as soon as I sit down my chest closes and the path to creativity freezes. So, instead of writing what I was in touch with earlier, I resort to talking about the obstacle that infringes on my creativity. How can I get the knot out of my heart? 

I believe I have two approaches to fixing or addressing this problem. The first involves pushing through all the resistance with a hard head. And the second involves stepping back and taking the time to fine tune this confusing piece of machinery. For the larger part of my life I’ve taken the first option—I’ve bulldozed my way through. I would make a goal and ignore any feelings or resistance that could get in the way of that goal. Unfortunately, I ran out of steam—I broke down so pitifully that I hardly wanted to live anymore. More recently, I’ve swayed towards the latter. That is, I have been working to catch my breath and tend to the internal obstacles that seem to be holding me back. (The knot in my chest seems to grow and grow as I write). 

Well, I’ve gotten nowhere but deeper into the ticket here. I have observed two modes for going through life that aren’t bearing any fruit. Now, I’m thinking of a third option: to follow my heart. How can I follow my heart? Although I have no answer, I feel the world has given me a hint…

I once had an experience where I truly felt connected to purpose and meaning. I felt in touch with my purpose in the same way that a speaker feels in touch with his message. When the message is clear and the words come easy and there as a true energy held in the messengers words. (When we don’t know what to say we can grasp for small talk or spare phrases but none of them will carry much substance).

But ahhhh, yet again, I find myself stuck…How can I get back in touch with that feeling? I don’t think sitting around waiting for a feeling would bring much success. But without that connection I feel lost–that connection is the compass I need to navigate my life. Unfortunately, I don’t have any answers in this writing. However, my fight through resistance to create this post is a small step in the right direction.

A note to any reader: Thank you for reading. I see that my thoughts are unclear and my thinking process quite gambled. Regardless, I must post this a small point of victory for myself. (And the question still remains…How to connect to your heart?!)

A day

If a picture tells a thousand words, my surroundings tell a thousand stories…


It’s a beautiful day here in cobblestone city. Canals and drawbridges wind through old brick and steel. Bikers move over them with serenity. From where I sit trees look like heads of broccoli and the grass that lays beneath them would drive a hungry cow mad. The clouds seem distantly content as they ride the wavy sky.

It’s the kind of day where a fly keeps landing on you. And its the kind of day where that fly is your best friend.

Space-Cadet

“Vroom”

            He switched gears and zoomed into the night sky. He drove on the wavy green-blue roads of the northern lights. Then he increased his speed and he flew to the constellations. He gathered the stars that made the big dipper and began to stir the milky way. The planets and constellations swirled and twirled and danced. The space cadet switched gears. 

*Gears grind clutch drops*

“Swoosh zoomy vroom wa-wa-waaaaaaAAA.” 

He kept going. What fun! The twirling tornado of stars sucked up the driver and spit him into another dimension. Time was not to be felt here. Time was just a road. He took a left turn down memory lane and suddenly burst into a million colors. When the colorful dust settled God took the dust and created man. 

Feel the freeze

Do you ever feel stuck? God knows I do. I seem to have developed into a person who is great at freezing. In high pressure situations I stop like the deer in lights. This happens in any area where pressure is present. And, well, most of life is high pressure. Relationships are filled with confusing feelings, and our goals are surrounded by roadblocks. This problem needs to be addressed. What can I do?

Well…to be honest I’m sort of in a place of freezing right now. In the past, I’d write endlessly. I never had plans of sharing anything and the words came abundantly and naturally. Now I’m trying to force content. Unfortunately, the creative mind doesn’t like to be forced. It wants to be natural. It wants to flow.  

So, instead of writing a great story or providing some interesting insight I’ve decided to take a step back. What does the mechanics of this state look like? What does the ‘freeze’ feel like? 

The emotion that surfaces first is sadness and loss—how many moments where lost because this body froze? How many races did I underperform in because I feared failure? How many relationships never became because I was afraid to be seen…afraid to show my vulnerable and broken self?

The next thing that I feel is a sense of relief. The expression and feeling of this pain has cleared a path for some tension to leave my heart… That is all for now. Thank you for sharing this moment with me 🙂

Prince and his Kingdom

Once upon a time there lived a special prince.  This prince was good and faithful to his father the king but when it was time for him to become king he declined.  He found himself not worthy of uniting and sustaining a kingdom.  Instead he wanted to gain all the knowledge and wisdom from around the world and store it into a special rock.  He could then take this rock with him everywhere he went and share all its wisdom.  

His father was grieved but could not stop his son from making his own discission.  So, with nothing but a desire to serve his kingdom the prince gave up his birth right and set off into the wilderness. The first thing that the prince came across was a wonderfully grown tree.  The tree stood powerfully and majestically.  Its roots were deep and firm, and its branches stretched far into the sky.  All sorts of animals lived-in and perched-on the tree.  The prince wished he could be like the tree.  So the prince looked at the tree and said: 

            “How can I build a kingdom as mighty as yourself? You are deeply rooted, and you provide shelter and shade for many.”

            The tree did not respond. The prince was not to mad at the tree but he dearly whished that the tree would reveal its secret.  ‘Oh well’ thought the boy.  He tossed his rock into his satchel slept under the tree for the night. 

            In the morning the ex-prince was awoken to the sound of rain falling heavily into the plains and forest.  Not wanting to become wet the child ran until he found a cave and stayed there for cover.  From this place of cover, he watched the rain.  He saw the earth drink up the rain with great thirst and share it with all that grew from it.  He wished that he could be like the rain and provide for his people.  The boy held out his rock to absorb the energy from the rain, but the energy wouldn’t get absorbed.  The child was slightly greaved that the rain wouldn’t shared its energy, but he couldn’t be too upset.  The child then filled his flask from a newly formed pool and continued on his journey. 

            After an hour or so had past the young prince became hungry.  The boy walked around until he found a tree with beautiful lush fruit.  He took and ate and marveled at how tasty it was.  You can probably guess the rest.  The boy held up his precious rock to the fruit and asked that its nourishing energy be shared with his rock. The fruit did not respond, and the child continued on his way.  

            Eventually the child became sad.  His big dreams and expectations for his kingdom seemed doomed. In his anger, he tossed his rock as far as he could became a vagabond. 

            Years later an old farmer walked through the forest and came across a peculiar looking rock. The old man took up the rock and through it in his satchel.  As he continued down his way, he saw a middle-aged man wondering in the mountains.  

            “How do you do?” asked the farmer

            “Oh nothing,” said the wonderer. “I have given up on my dreams and decided to roam the country instead.”

            “What was your dream” asked the old farmer?

            “It was to find the wisdom to unite the kingdom”

            “Ahh, I see,” Said the farmer, “Perhaps you can take this lucky rock for good luck.”

            The farmer stretched out his hand with the same rock that the old prince had lost long ago.    The prince could hardly believe that the rock had come back to him and he took it as a sign.  

            “Dear farmer,” Said the prince, “Will you show me how to plant this rock so that its energy might grow from it?”

            The farmer was hesitant at first but soon agreed to the challenge.  

            The two walked together.  Soon they arrived some 60 dallengers from city walls.  The farmer then began to explain to the middle-aged prince how to grow rocks. 

            “To grow a rock,” said the farmer, “it must first be turned into seed. Once the rock becomes organic it must be planted near a good source of pure water and it must only be surrounded by good energy.”

            “Thank you for your help.” Said the prince “I will be on my way now to turn this rock into a seed.”

            The first thing on the agenda then, what to figure out how to turn the rock into something other than a rock.  To do this the prince took his special rock to a spiritual forest.  Within this forest lived an Elf and a horse and an Ogre.  They were all friends and they were more than happy to assist the child in his endeavor.  

            The problem, however, was that all three had a different idea of how to turn the rock into a growth vessel.  

            The elf spoke first: “I think that we should gather some magical leaves and stir it into a great big pot and add one drop of a nymphs tear. Then we can drop the rock into the pot, and it will become life-like.”

            “That is foolish!” exclaimed the Ogre.  “I reckon that we smash the rock with another rock so hard that they fuse together and become life-like.”

            The horse did not speak, but everyone got the idea that he thought the rock should be taken to the top of the nearest mountain with the highest peak and let it to be struck by lightning. 

            The prince was baffled that everyone had such contrasting idea. Nevertheless, he decided to take everyone’s advice. 

            He made a potion on top of the highest peak and smashed it all whilst it was being struck my lightning. The lightning strike destroyed the prince.  However, the surrounding area was left with a beautiful majestic tree.  It was the most useful useless tree.  It was not great for lumber and it didn’t produce much fruit.  But the tree was the most beautiful of all trees.  People would take time out of their days just to look at the tree and to sit under its branches.  The tree could be seen from the kingdom and people were united in its beauty.