The Pen Is Mightier Than The Sword discussion
CONTESTS
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Were you able to octoBEAR the wait?!
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Right? Death is a much easier topic. Especially with Halloween coming up.
Thanks and gratitude...could be fun.
Does depend on whom it's for.
Mod
Grateful for death, that's inspiring, thanks!
Hmm...you guys got me thinking, great ideas. Think outside the box, hold up, there is no box. <3 good luck everyone.
Mod
Mod
Yup. I'm not going to create multiple topics this time.
@Keith: No problem! Glad to hear you've got something working.
I have started working on something, I hope to have it up in the next few days!
Trying hard to work on something with an unusual pov.
Just a little fact: OctoBear. It's sort of a mascot, like a octopus on a bear's head.
Wrinkled SeedsWrinkled Seeds
I’ve never loved anyone more than I loved my father. I’m also grateful to him for the many life-lessons he gave me. The following is just one.
My baby brother was just a few days old on my fifth birthday. Dejected, listening to grandmas and aunts make a fuss over the baby, I sat on the porch. Daddy came and sat beside me. “What’s up, kid?”
“It’s my birthday and I don’t even have a cake.”
“But Mommy just got home with the baby today. She’s really tired and couldn't bake a cake. Besides, you don’t like cake.”
That was true. I didn't like cake. I just wanted the candles to blow out like my cousin had on her cake in October. Instead, all I had was a new little brother, a huge load of jealousy and a china coach one of my grandmas had brought for me. Other than that, no one else even seemed to remember it was my birthday.
“I don’t like that baby, either,” I told my dad. “He’s all wrinkled and ugly and doesn't do anything but cry or lie there.” They’d told me I could play with him. They’d lied.
“Yup, he is wrinkled and ugly. But he’ll grow.”
I sniffed. “I wanted a baby sister.” Actually, I hadn't want a baby anything. The dog's puppies had all been given away. We could give the brother away, too, couldn't we?
Daddy e handed me his hanky. I blew. “I know,” he said when he’d tucked his hanky into his back pocket where he always kept it at the ready for little-girl tears, “but you already have a sister. A big sister. Your mom and I wanted a little boy-baby to go with you two.”
“I was your baby. You didn’t need another one.”
“You’re still my baby.”
“No. You have another baby.”
“Ah, but you’re my baby-kid.”
He’d started calling me “baby-kid” around Christmas time. I remember there was a present under the tree with a tag that said “For my Baby-Kid from Daddy.” Mommy, who always sat under the tree and doled out the gifts, reading each tag, had winked at him.
He took my hand and stood, pulling me down from the porch, his big feet thumping beside mine on the steps.
“Where are we going?”
“To start an experiment.”
Always willing to do what he suggested, and loving the personal attention, I went with him to the shed. He collected a shovel, a rake, and a small brown bag he gave me to carry. He dug into the soil in a dip surrounded by gray bedrock, turned it over and made sure it was well mixed and soft.
“Here, you can rake it smooth,” he said, giving me the long, unwieldy tool. When I was done, he said, “Now, poke your finger in the dirt, five little holes, this far apart” –he showed me a span of about six inches—“one for each of your years. These will be the candles on the cake you didn't get, but just like Mommy and I had to wait for the baby, you’ll have to wait for your candles. Put a seed in each hole and cover it gently.”
I opened the bag of seeds and looked at them in disgust. “They’re wrinkly, too. And ugly.” Not much hope for them, either, I thought.
Daddy laughed. His laughter always made me happy. It burbled deep and sounded warm. “That’s right. They’re just as wrinkly and ugly as your brother, but you’ll see what happens to small, ugly wrinkly things if they’re looked after right.
“Every day it doesn't rain, give your garden a bit of water. In a week or two, you’ll see little green leaves coming out of those wrinkly seeds. If you look after your birthday garden, about the time your brother gets hair and maybe a tooth or two, you’re going to get flowers—and some of them will be the color of your hair.” The color of my hair? That intrigued me. My hair was sort of the color of the flames on birthday candles.
Soon, those leaves became bigger, round, and long stems grew out at about the same time as my baby brother stopped looking ugly and started doing things other than cry and spit up. By the time he grew fuzzy white hair and fat cheeks, and began to smile and then laugh when I tickled him, I had a wild riot of color growing in amazing abundance, overflowing that little garden in the gray rocks. They spilled in glory—sprawling stems, green leaves; flowers, orange, yellow, red, striped, more beautiful than I could have imagined and some of them were the color of my hair. Daddy had been right. Just like my wrinkled, unfinished baby brother, my five wrinkled seeds had become something to love, to admire, in which to take pride. I don’t know if I ever really thanked him, but nasturtiums are still my favorite flower.
My brother’s not too bad, either.
Keith wrote: "I like this one better. \m/"Haha yups :)
I am going with the Halloween thankful thing to mix it up a little, so here is mine:The Perfect Family
The year was 1878, and a young girl of the age of 17 was wandering the streets, seeking refuge. Her face was tear stained, and her eyes were starting to dart in panic; the sun was setting lower by the minute, and the temperature was dropping. No one was walking the streets any longer, as it was past curfew, and any house she approached locked their doors. Her family had disowned her that night, and she was completely alone. The man that she had given her life to had abandoned her, instead of bringing dishonor onto himself by marrying her. She had refused to marry the man her family had picked out for her and instead ran away with the man of her choosing, but she could now see that what she had done was wrong. When the the sun had fully set, and there was nowhere left to go, the girl sank into the road to cry, not knowing what to do. After a few moments, she began to here something strange coming down the road, and raised her head, hoping it was someone that could help her. The tapping of a cane and the clicking of hard soles came louder and louder up the road, and before she knew it a tall man stood before her. He was wearing a rich man's suit and a dark black party mask with a long nose over his face, but he stopped before her. “What are you doing out at this time of night?” he asked, compassion in his voice. The girl explained that she had no home to go to, and that she needed somewhere to spend the night. A smile grew over the mysterious man's face and he offered her a white gloved hand to help her out of the road. “My family is known for taking care of people in need, so we always have extra rooms to lend. Why don't you come with me tonight? We are hosting a masked ball, and my family would love to have you.” The young girl was delighted and rushed off with him, neither of them even sharing their names, and neither of them thinking they needed to. At the end of their walk, just as the sun had sunk completely from the sky, they came upon a large house, lights flickering brightly within the windows. The pair mounted the steps and swept through the grand doors into the main room. Groups of dancing people stood everywhere, swaying to the beautiful music that was being playing by the musicians onstage. A sad trembling voice of a violin overcame the rest of the music and sent shivers down the spine of everyone present. The young girl didn't know what to think of the grandeur. Every lady was wearing a beautifully colored ball gown with an elegant mask to match, and each had a man to waltz with them. They passed through the crowds, a path clearing before them smoothly, and they disappeared around a corner into a dimly lit corridor. The man led her through the halls and into one of the back rooms, almost completely set away from the noise and lights, to a beautiful room that seemed to be set away just for her. “Here you are, my lady,” the man said, spreading his arms wide to gesture to the whole of the room. A beautiful four poster bed and several detailed dressers filled the room. The walls were painted an even crème, and were accented with large, expertly painted pieces of artwork. “You will find a plentiful closet through that door,” he said, motioning to the opening on one side of the room, “and a washroom through that one,” he said, motioning to the other. “Please feel free to join us after you have dressed.” With that he left the room, swinging the large doors closed, and left the girl all alone. She walked immediately to the closet to see what dresses were there for her to wear to the party, and inside was a vast expanse of colors and fabrics of all kinds, the variety to perfect to be true. She slid her fingers along the soft silk of the garments and came to rest on the most beautiful pale pink gown, flowing with expensive, shimmering layers. With it she found a black mask that stood out against the dress in stark beauty. She rushed to the washroom to clean up, and try the dress on, and when she put it on, it seemed to be made for her, fitting her perfectly, as if the mysterious man had known the exact measurements to custom fit the dress. The silk fluttered outward as she spun, catching the light and shimmering with elegance. She put on the mask and looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes seemed to sink into the darkness behind the mask, making her beauty seem ominous, but for some reason, it also made her feel like she was a part of the mysterious family that had welcomed her in. She walked out into the hall to join the party and spun carelessly into the swarms of dancing people. Everywhere there seemed to be an intoxicating warmth of laughter, and colors, punctuated by the sharpness of the dark-eyed masks looking back at her. Across the room, she could see the man who had so kindly invited her, and made her way over to him, kindly pushing her way through the crowds. Around him was a group of people who weren't enjoying the party like the rest of the people. They were all wearing the same black mask as she was, with the deep eyes and elongated nose. She suspected that this was the generous man's family, as they all had the same mysterious air about them. “Ah! Here she is now!” The man exclaimed when she had arrived beside him. He went on to introduce his family, and explain that they also took care of people with disabilities. A woman who looked like his wife limped over to the girl, asking sweetly what her name was. “I'm Annabelle.” The girl said, shaking hands with each of the family members that greeted her. It seemed that a few of them, just like the wife, limped, while a few others couldn't speak, and still a few others that didn't have use of one of their arms or something along those lines. As a whole, they all seemed to have something interesting about them, but they also seemed so happy, that it appeared that they were the perfect family. The man took Annabelle's hand and led her away from the party, engaging her in polite conversation until they were out of the room. “I need to speak with you about something,” the man said, suddenly urgent. “Please don't be alarmed. Keep your head open to uncertainties and go along with everything I say, at least for the moment.” Annabelle nodded and motioned for him to continue, and he launched immediately into his explanation. “God has granted me the power to forgive people of their sins,” he explained, and Annabelle was taken off guard by this strange declaration, but continued listening, “I can erase the sins from people's past and give them a wonderful life. That's what I've done for my family, and now you have a chance to become part of us. You are welcome to stay, but only perfect people can be a part of my family, I wouldn't accept anything less. Would you like to become perfect?” Annabelle looked at him strangely for a moment, but he seemed quite earnest, and she had promised to keep an open mind about things. Had this man really been given this wonderful power, and could he wipe her slate clean? Though it would be wonderful to be perfect, what she had understood from him was that he was offering her a forgiving family. She didn't take long to answer, it was as if the man had granted her exactly what she had been looking for. “Of course!” she cried, nodding her head vehemently, ready to become part of a perfect family. “You have chosen wisely, and you won't regret it.” A voice said behind her, and she realized that his wife had been there the whole time. “Father will make you clean, and you will become a beautiful soul.” “Father?” Annabelle asked, “You aren't married?” “Of course not!” The woman exclaimed, “Father is the person who has brought us out of our sin, and now he will do the same with you.” Father then led her back to her room and instructed her to change into her other clothes, but warned her not to take off her mask for any reason. She did as she was told, but wondered why she wasn't to take off her mask. When Father came back to forgive her, he led her to a room down a separate hall, one that she hadn't noticed before. Her heart raced with excitement, and anyone could see that she was a bit nervous about whatever was about to happen to her. After what seemed like a split second of twists and turns, they reached a door set off from the rest that was made completely out of a thick elegant wood. The wall itself was painted black, purposely creating a stark difference against the nearly bleached wood. Inside of the door was a small room that seemed almost completely empty; the walls were blank, and there was no furniture except for a soul wooden chair sitting in the middle if the room. Father locked the door then motioned for her to sit, but as she did, her mask slipped off her face, and the illusion fell away. The floor was a deep blood red, as was the chair, stained so dark it was almost black. The kind smile on Father's face had turned into a one of hate and evil. The walls were lined with shelves of jars, some of them with interesting specimens floating behind the clear glass. Annabelle stood up to say she had changed her mind but Father forced her back into the chair. “You will be forgiven!” He shrieked, madness etched into his face, and as he tied her to the chair he explained. “It is said that if your right hand sins you should cut it off so that it doesn't sin anymore, and I have done God's duty by removing the sin of people's lives.” Annabelle then saw the truth, and she struggled all the more to escape. “God didn't grant you anything!” She screamed, “The devil did!” Father, still wearing his now ominous suit, pulled out a pair of large metal scissors and placed it on a table that had appeared beside her. He looked at them and smiled, as if looking back on a beautiful memory. “Some people go where they shouldn't, so, snip snip, a sinful foot is destroyed. Some people say things they shouldn't, so, snip snip, and a sinful tongue is destroyed.” He paused and turned his black eyeless mask back onto me, “But sometimes, we are special, it is our heart that sins, and therefore we must demolish our own inner feelings.” With that he pulled out a long silver knife that glinted in the dull light. “We are special beings, and you and me will live on as perfect heartless people.” The last thing she saw was a perfect silver knife, stained red in the shadows.
I live with Father. He is a wonderful person and I have no choice but to be thankful to him for taking me from my sin and giving me a new life. I am perfect, as is everyone in our family. Every night we host a secret masked ball and bring in lost and sinful people and convince them of becoming a part of our perfect family. Father forgives them, so that they may be perfect, too. Life is perfect, and the colors and laughter is perfectly intoxicating. We live in a bubble, a never ending party, in which we cannot escape, but will never want to escape anyway. We live just as we want and have but one rule: Never take off your mask.
Anyhow, we're back!
It's Canadian Thanksgiving this weekend, so our prompt is... death.
Nah, just kidding, it's thanks and gratitude.
Rules: Any piece of writing that has never been previously published or entered into a contest is eligible, so long as it relates to the prompt.
Get creative! If you wanna create a graphic novel, or an audiobook, go ahead! We love to see (or hear) your work.
To your pens fellow artists!