Writing a Story

I wrote myself a character and I loved them dearly.  I made him sweet and young, innocent and curious.  He held my hand as I penned out his dark hair and the freckles on his nose.  I wrote him a house and a family, I even penned him friends and the habit of blinking excessively when he was tired.  I gave him arms and legs, but they wouldn’t be strong.  I realized that they couldn’t simply be strong from nothing, so I penned him the desire to run and his legs filled in with muscle.

Writing

I wrote him to be curious, so he explored the corners of life.  The more adventures he took on, the wiser he grew.  He wasn’t very strong of mind, though, for everything made since.  So I wrote him a puzzle, something he couldn’t comprehend.  He turned away from me with a pout, saying I’d left him alone.  His freckles were a flash before my eyes as he refused to let his meet mine.  I wrote him clues and guided him silently as he worked along the path, until he solved the puzzle in time, he ran into my arms at long last.  Though I wrote him a puzzle, I always penned him the answers.  He revolted at my challenges, but the more he faced, he saw the truth.

I wanted to write him to be brave, but my pen faltered and refused, for it was never so simple.  So I penned him challenges and terrors that he had to face.  At first, he ran.  He had no ounce of bravery within him, but I wrote him hope and I stood by his side as he faced the darkness.

I wrote him as kind, but as battered souls challenged him, his kindness wore thin, so I gave him love and patience to bear up with it.  To give him patience, I had to leave him stranded and alone.  He grew angry, but I gave him peace.  His anger burst into tears as he cried out for me.  I penned him comfort and I sent him strong friends, and they struggled in conflict.  I watched him grow and fall with them, and he turned from me to them.

I meant to write him as loyal, but he turned his loyalties away from me.  He ran with his friends and loved them alone.  They turned on him and left him alone until he cried for my return.  I lifted him out of the mud and penned him great sorrow, but in that sorrow he found joy.  He blinked and nodded, his soul was weary.  I penned to him refreshment and and encouragement, I cleansed him with new life.  His face shone once again.

I penned him forgiveness through all that I had shown him, and he chased after his friends with my hand in his.  I stroked the hair from his face and saw that his freckles were barely visible.  He had grown strong, wise and loving.  He was kind and forgiving, and the bravest of all.  As he stood before me, I smiled.

His journey did not end there, no.  That is when his journey began.

~Tori Lynn

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One thought on “Writing a Story

  1. Deborah Marsh says:

    You are just the best writer – Missing you! Stay safe…love you Deborah

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