Prompt: The Heirloom Cane (Prompt from "400 Story Seeds to Crush Writers Block")

 From 400 Story Seeds to Crush Writers Block by M. Kirin

Prompt: Write about a young character who needs a cane to walk and thus are gifted the cane of one of their late grandparents. What is the history of this cane? Is this the first time it's been passed down? How does this young character feel about the present?Do they find shame in such an antiquated item...or does it inspire them to go on, much like it inspired their ancestors?

He turned it over in his hands. Smooth polished wood, set in a metal sheath that gleamed in the sunlight. He thought he could catch the faintest whiff of fragrance, perhaps teak or sandalwood. The curved handle was inlaid with gold with a copper pattern embedded within it. 

"This was Grandpa's? I don't think I've ever seen him use it before."

His grandmother nodded as she set the cup of tea before him. "This was his formal cane. He only used it for special occasions, like weddings, funerals, and outings to the theatre. You know how he took a bullet to the hip when he was about your age?"

"In the war, wasn't it?"

"Aye, it was." She sat across from him and took her tea cup in her hands. Her watery blue eyes seemed far away, lost in memory. "Imagine him as a young man, forced to use a cane for his daily living. This was a bit before I met him, see, and he was a bit too proud. He tried to get away without a cane for a long as he could. Then his grandfather pulled him aside."

He ran his fingers over the copper pattern in the handle. "What did he say?"

"'Pride goeth a fall, lad, and don't make it literal in your case.'" She chuckled and shook her head. "So he gave him that cane there. Dunno what else he said, but your grandfather took it to heart. He worked as hard as he could, got stronger, more balanced. Eventually, he was able to walk better. Not like he did before the war, mind you, but good enough that he could work again."

He chuckled; he could see Grandpa slowly making his way around the cobblestone streets, up the hill to the pub, over to the docks, with this cane in hand. The MacLeary stubborness, as everyone called it. They either praised it or cursed it, depending on the day or the season.

"You've always reminded me of him, you know. Your father, not so much, but you, well, you inherited more than just the looks."

He grimaced at the mention of his father. That ne'er do well hadn't even bothered to call or visit since his accident. His mother, God bless her dearly departed soul, would turn in her grave if she'd known. Grandma's tone didn't betray any emotion for her wayward son. She might as well have been talking about the weather.

"You think this can help me get back on my feet again?"

"It worked for your Grandpa, and I think it would work for you too. Think of it like a magic staff or something from your books. I know it's fantasy, but there's something about this fancy stick that kicked him in the arse. Not that I think you need it as much as he did, but it can't hurt to have a bit of help now and then."

He grinned. "So he got it from his grandfather, and--"

"--I assumed from his grandpa before him. Before then, I have no clue where it came from. Maybe from the fae folk, for all I know. All I can tell you is that it saved your grandpa's sanity and let him live again after his injury. And so, maybe it can do the same for you. In either case," she sipped her tea and nodded at him, then said, "the worst you can do is mope about and feel sorry for yourself. And if you decide to be a sodden dishrag, I will take this cane use it like a shillelagh over your noggin. Am I clear?"

That got a startled chuckle from him. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Use that wisely and well, and you'll be back to doing what you need to do."

He held it in his hand, tapped it on the floor. Strong and sturdy, just like his grandfather had been, and just as he hoped to be.