A Pondering Paradox's Palace

I was three when my father taught me to use a sword. Rather, he taught me how not to catch a sword. The lesson is the same, really. I still have a scar on my arm from where his razor sharp blade sliced through almost half of my bicep and cut me to the bone. I stood in stunned silence, watching the blood flow across my arm and drip down onto the ground. My father calmly picked up his sword and wiped my blood off of it.

“Your reflexes are slow,” he told me.

I wasn’t entirely sure where reflexes were then, but I didn’t bother to ask. I grabbed my now throbbing arm, and turned to hide my pain.

“Where are you going?” asked my father.

“To mother,” I said, holding up my arm as an explanation.

“You do not go to women,” said my father. “Not until I tell you.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Now stand where you were. You’re going to catch the sword this time.”

I stood back in my place and waited for my father to move. After a few minutes I spoke up, “Father?” I asked. “When are you going to throw your sword?”

“When I decide to,” said my father. “Be still.”

I stood, shivering, while the blood dripped down to my hand. It took me three more times to catch the sword. I’ve never missed a toss since.

Over twenty years have passed since then and my arms have many more scars. One for each lesson my father taught me. I have seen other men with scars. They received their scars because of the lessons their father did not teach them.

Yesterday, my son turned three. It took him only two times to catch my sword. I believe his arm will scar.

Write time: 14 minutes