The Tale of Timothy True
A well-meaning slacker with his head in the clouds suffers dire consequences for not having due diligence. Will he learn his lesson?
This short story was written for the NYCM short story challenge of Winter 2025. It received an honorable mention in the first round.
In a land of plenty, where the soil was fertile, and the forest was strong and healthy; there visited a band of travelers quite grand with plans raise a city. First order of business was to build a residence, and the settlers agreed on the lots. The land was perfect and that was the verdict, all they needed was to gather the parts.
Among the crew brought Timothy True, with a knack for the architectural craft. He yearned to shape with heart and hand, a quirky shack where his dreams would stand.
As he sketched and he sketched between frolics and naps, the days turned to evenings, then weeks. When he pondered his plot, he hummed at the canvas, having postponed a bit more than he thought.
"You better hurry," said Hank the Humble after he propped the fourth of his walls. He covered them well and blocked out the swell and entered his hut with a tut: "The storm on the horizon won't wait for your date, and I see not a peg has been laid."
At Hank's words, Timothy scratched his chin and studied the undisturbed dirt. In peril of turning dry loam into sludge, he sighed and shrugged with a dirge. "What's done is done," he said to his friend, "for I will stay with Gertrude the Glad." The pointed dark roof over mighty pink walls would serve well to ride out the bad.
Hank shrugged with a smile and withdrew in style to wait for the storm to pass.
When Timothy knocked at Gertrude's front door, she allowed him one night, but no more!
While under the light of the candle's soft glow, Timothy drew and was pleased with his home. Rain pattered the roof, and he knew that he goofed, and resolved: no delay the next day! Such a friend in Gertrude that Timothy had, no wonder they called her "the Glad." She gave him a lesson, a prudent life lesson, about taking care of a home.
"It's not all that easy," she said nice and slow, "you must keep your eye on the sky. For when the weather does hit, your foundation might split, and a shame when you don't even know."
"Thanks for the tip," he replied with a grin, as the rain continued above, "I'll keep your words handy when I build this nice shanty." Then he showed her the plan in his hand.
"Tomorrow you'll win if at once you begin, but please don't think about stalling. For on the horizon, more weather is calling, and you'll regret waiting one more day."
"Thank you again, my intelligent friend, I work best when I live under pressure. But don't take in offense, my sincerest defense of my highly unusual ways."
After making his point, Gertrude resolved to comply, as it wasn't truly her place. But if Tim didn't haste, it would be such a waste and he was not allowed to rot in her joint.
When the sun rose the next morning, the sky had no warning, and Timothy looked at his land. The rain did a number on all of his lumber, as it warped and curled in the stand.
"Oh drat, what a bother," he mumbled all somber and took a look at the mud. "This plot is too soggy and the wood too wonky, will my dream home be only a dud?"
"G'morning Tim, why so grim? Did we not tell you to hurry?" Hank mentioned to him, from his tented glory, yet spoken humble and worried.
"I've got this," Tim said, a hand to his head, in salute to assure Hank's mood. "But first to make merry, I must not tarry, I need to get me some food."
And off Tim went, to the big city tent, where all the townsfolk were eating. But unlike Tim, they weren't very dim, and their homes were sturdy with meaning. With a shrug and a smile, he stayed all the while, eating and drinking all morning.
In afternoon, the sun was shining, and Tim had thought it too grand. It would be a shame to ignore the gain of the light just to work with his hands. So he fancied in blunder to use time to wonder, among the beauty of nature. Despite Gertrude’s pleas to get him appeased to settle within his own venture.
"Oh how nice!" he exclaimed to the laborers in pains who kept on building their shelters. When no one would listen, he went on a mission to gaze upon everyone's tenders. The farther along, he broke out in song about his intimidation. "Woe is me, and why should it be, that I can't find motivation?"
"I have great ideas, see—look at these!" He held out his drawings in mourning. "Compared to the people, their homes would be feeble! If only I can get busy building!"
Tim dropped his hands to his side with his drawings, sighing in creative lament. What good is an artist, if they can't get started, to show their amazing content? He resolved to get back to his plot with intent to at least get a little cover. But his wood was not good, yet he would do what he could to make it work as a bunker.
When he skipped supper, Tim felt some of the pressure, to get something into the ground. Gertrude had shunned him when he asked for an extension to stay in her lovely pink house.
"This wood is too round, and the ground too soft," he said with sweat on his brow. The sky had darkened, if only he'd hearkened, the words of his friends before now.
A tap and a grind, it would take his whole mind, to get the pieces in place. But nothing he made would save him that day, from the incoming weather he faced. Just four posts were driven, with curved crooks at the tip, looking like hooks field shepherds were given. Tim glared at the posts with fists to boast his frustration at being a twit.
Clouds rolled in with the next storm in line, and his nose had felt the first drip. Sweating now, really sweating now, was Tim meant for homeownership?
In came the tempest, a most furious tempest, and poor Tim had nowhere to go. So as a resort, he tamped in the buttress to the closest tree by her door. Gertrude's home had become rather sturdy, so perhaps it could block the wind. "Who am I kidding, soon I won't be living!" he said with frantic chagrin.
With thoughts of survival could he hold on tighter? And with luck he won't blow away. If the maker was with him, surely he'd listen, and keep Tim from going astray. With a rope and a knot, Tim tied up his lot, then looked to the sky to wait. The first peals of thunder called out after dinner, then he closed his eyes to his fate.
The wind howled and raged as his rope tugged and raised, his whole body up like a balloon. Between his screams, he gagged with pleas, to the maker for mercy in the monsoon.
Tossing and tossing he flew like a bird, but tethered firm through the wave. It seemed the maker would not let a breaker bring old Tim to his grave. It made him laugh, maybe he was daft, as the shepherd hooks danced in their holes. They spun around, but did not leave the ground, and gave him a nice little show.
Perhaps a sign, that he could combine, the whimsy of wonk with divine. He vowed as he floated, to his home he noted, to make something out of this world. If he lived, was the catch, but he thought he might last, at least 'til the end of the day. The rope held firm and his hope was sure that he would be gently placed away.
And so at last, the gusts and the blasts were finally held at bay. Tim landed down, his feet on the ground, and not a scratch or a fray.
"Whew, that was close!" he said with a boast as everyone raced outside. Gertrude and Hank were relieved to find, and hurried to stand by Tim's side.
"I was worried for you, now we know what to do," said Gertrude with nods from the crowd. "We can help you too, it's way over due, just keep your head from the clouds."
Timothy grinned and had himself a win—the help of their hands with his art. As they cleaned up the lot and prepared as it ought, the muddy canvas was a start. A part of him knew that his skill with the tools suffered in a great way. But with Hank by his side and Gertrude's right mind, they would build his great house any day.
"I can take care of inside, if you don't mind, to let me wait for the people," Gertrude told Tim, with a hug and a grin, as her skill wouldn't have any equal.
Of course he'd oblige, a folly otherwise, so he agreed to her simple request.
For now there was work, and a team for his quirk, and now was no time to rest!
It was Hank that drew close, to ask for his host, to instruct him what next to do. And in that instant, Tim thought it quite brilliant, to let Hank in on his next move.
"I had an idea while I watched myself fly, that these warped pegs might do something useful. If you don't mind to try, they can reach to the sky, to harvest and not be wasteful."
"Wasteful of what? Might I think you are nuts?" Hank asked in a curious demeanor.
"Why the breeze, of course," Tim replied somewhat coarse, "We can harness the power of air. Let's try hooking them up so they'll catch the right wave, then they spin and spin in their place. As they do, we can gather, much more than before, the energy within the matter."
"A bold idea, I think I might like it… tell the others and they will listen. Sketch it out for us now so we will know how, to help you follow through with your vision."
With renewed vigor, Tim's heart got a bit bigger, and soon his art would be real. The friends he can bank, on Gertrude and Hank, and he told of the others their deal. Their nods and agreements were pleasing to hear as the rest of them set off to work. Tim drew and he sketched, as he knew it best, the wind-stealing wood shepherd's hooks.
He presented the plan to the rest of the clan and while sunny they laid the foundation. Not to be idle, Tim joined with his scheme, and his spade, to help work as their equal. Learning much as he helped, and he dug in the muck, not long the frame had gone up. What luck they had found while they formed from the ground, the best weather to craft the grand hut.
Up went the hooks and they reached to the sky, much higher than Timothy flew. With sweat on his face and a satisfied trace, he looked up as his house grew and grew. The roof was laid and the walls made to create a suitable shelter. As the weather was nice, they built paradise on Tim's lot until all was a-splendor.
"Come inside, my good chums," Tim said with a hum, "let's celebrate and have a big party. For you've helped in my weakness and bolstered my strengths to blend function with all that is artsy."
When the town filed inside and met Tim's stride, if at once the sky did know, that all were protected inside the reception the wind began to blow.
"Look and see!" Hank shouted with a point as he routed all gazes along the four corners. The spiraling hooks quivered and shook, embracing with wind with a saunter.
In a flash it went black inside the great dome, but it didn't last long in this home. As the hooks went a-spinning the people were winning with new light flickering on.
"You were right!" Hank said to Tim with delight, "and now look at how awesome the glory! For during the storm, all the rest of the homes are bathed in the night's dark fury."
As they had fun together, under the splendor of Tim's well lighted abode, Gertrude the Glad seemed somewhat sad as when she eyeballed all four cathodes.
"Why so glum? There's no need to bum, for I'll make sure to do you some justice. For the next sunny day, we will certainly pray to install them to honor your service." Tim gave her a hug and she smiled with a shrug, pleased with his new model. And the townsfolk agreed that they would indeed be installing all homes with the tottles.
When they emerged, from the storm that had purged, they saw that it gave them good fortune. For the moisture of rain gave spare planks the pains and curled them to shape in right portions. And so it came the time to bade for the people to revisit their buildings. It didn't take much, to rework and adjust the new way they looked into living.
At Tim's brush with death, he felt oddly blessed, as the idea was born from the nuisance. Now all of his friends can be graced with the bends of the same hooks that danced in that sequence. No matter the horror of tempests come 'morrow, they're assured that the lights would stay on. At Tim's inspirations and his friends' operations, they joined their great gifts into one.
Each home had four spires, of wind-catching gyres, and of course Gertrude got hers in pink. Hank's were in blue, and the rest made in true, to their own styles of colorful ink.
"How neat!" Tim did bleat as the hooks slowly creaked, while they generated the power. For good days and bad, the breeze as it had, would serve to juice up their towers. The colors made merry when power was ferried, and Tim's dream of art had come true. All it took was a panicky look into death's mortiferous due.
As Gertrude mentioned, a home is a legend, and one not to take very lightly. For care must be given and diligence to liven, a sanctuary most rightly. And now that they found, the right skills to abound, together they were much more mighty. And this little town, called Persistence Crown, was admired and looked upon brightly.
Tim learned his big lesson, and sought out to strengthen, his diligence to care for a home. And as it would lend, much help from his friends, a dwelling to call his own. One final look at his own purple hooks, and he smiled with great fellowship—when before he felt inept, he worked to adept in his quest for homeownership.
~END