Morrison Jones was one step closer to his dream.
Owning a castle.
Perhaps it was odd, a grown man wanting to live in a castle and going so far as to spend his savings on a tower. They had started clearing the area and would start building in the next month. But, even though the workers were annoying and far from polite, barging in to get coffee whenever they so felt like it, Morrison was happy.
He was going to have a castle. A large castle with a foyer and chambers and banners and expensive rugs and antique weapons and old tyme windows and a tower.
Who could ask for anything more?
Morrison had three children, two girls and boy. They had moved out a long while ago, though his youngest still stayed with him over the summer, being only in college.
Michael, the oldest and only boy, was calling.
"Hey Dad," Michael said cooly through the phone, "how's the castle coming?"
"Good, the tower's almost in."
"I've got good news, too."
"Well, what is it?"
Morrison gasped, "wouldn't you have known earlier?" After many failed attempts, Michael's wife Monica was finally pregnant.
"We did," he said, "but we the doctor's said it was likely one might not make it."
"Oh my," Morrison could barely contain himself, "your mom would be so happy."
"I know, I know," even through the phone line, Morrison knew his son was rolling his eyes, "we'd love it you'd visit soon."
"I certainly will. Have you told your sisters?"
"Calling them right after."
"Well, I'll let you go. I love you."
"Love you, too, Dad. Bye!"
"Bye," Morrison said, placing the phone back on the wall.
I'm going to be a grandparent, Morrison had known this for a while, but only know was the thought really hitting him. I'll have grandchildren to get through college. His older daughter, Pat, was in a long relationship. I have to help pay for a wedding, and who knows what else? Sarah will probably get married, too. And then more grandchildren... Morrison sat down on his 'throne', a large, comfortable armchair in the center of his foyer.
"I'm going to need money."
After living alone for a period of two years, Morrison had developed a habit of talking to himself.
"How am I supposed to get money? I'm spending so much money on my..." castle. It hit him like a bombshell. Well, what's more important, your dreams or theirs'? "Mine... no." He corrected himself. Theirs'. I'm like the king, I need to focus on my kingdom, not my castle.
Morrison went to pour himself some coffee, only to find the workers had drank it all.
Somehow, this invigorated him. He glanced out the window at the workers, slacking off from their castle making duties.
Time to execute the knights.
"Hey!" he called out to them, "get the hell of my property!"
One worker gave him a very long sentence with some very colorful vocabulary that translated to: "You're paying us to build, old man. Let us do it."
And while they packed up, Morrison Jones lounged in his throne with a good book, that much closer to his dream.
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