You butts know that scene in Lord of the Rings when everybody thinks Aragorn is dead, and then he busts through the doors of Helm's Deep like the muddiest badass in Middle Earth? Well THAT is what's happening on Writer Wars today; it is our triumphant, Strider-style return (minus the greasy hair and irreparably damaged leather boots), and dammit, we are glad to be back. In case you need a little refresher, your last prompt was to write a short story about waking up to discover that you have either A: the power to shape-shift, or B: the ability to control your favorite element. All y'all came up with some tantalizing tales, and we will now proceed to shower the winners with congratulatory noogies and some still-warm cheese peeled off a near-by pizza.
Sparklers' Choice (with 15 votes): graceunderpressure! Check out her uplifting story below!
They feed me full of stories, because stories are easier than food for me to keep down. They tell me stories of people like me, but instead of laying around all day, these people do amazing things. They stop hunger and raise money for research and inspire millions of people around the world. I know that they don’t mean any harm by this; they’re just trying to cheer me up.
But still, the stories hurt. I will never be great. I’m not a person who will get books written about me, go on Oprah, nothing. I am just Mia Hannegan, a 16-year-old who is slowly dying from a brain tumor.
But still, I try. I mean, today I am even dressed. That is an accomplishment for me.
My mom comes into my room, like she does every five minutes to make sure I haven’t died while she was getting the mail. “Look at you,” she coos, like she is talking to a baby or small animal. “Clothes.”
“Yep,” I say. I feel the need just then to prove myself, show her that while I may be dying, today I am alive and most definitely not an infant.
“I’m going in a walk,” I tell her. I pull myself out of my bed.
“Outside?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. And before she can protest, I walk out the door.
As soon as I get outside, I start to regret this choice. A wind nips at me. My legs aren’t as strong as they once were. I used to run cross county; now I can barely get around. I consider going back inside. But they never tell stories about people who were too chicken to go on a walk. So I pull the hat covers my bare head closer to me and take a few steps.
The wind is getting stronger. It gusts around me, playing with my clothes, tickling my skin. It feels practically alive today, I think. But then I realize that that is probably because I haven’t outside in weeks.
The wind blows my hat right off my head. I grab for it, but soon it’s beyond my reach. It’s not worth it. Everyone knows anyway, they don’t need the ugly scar to tell them.
I think for a second that it would be nice if the wind stopped. It’s just a passing thought, but right at the moment, the wind dies.
“That was weird,” I say. I think about what just happened, remember the wind assaulting me earlier. Right as I picture the wind, it starts back up. Not slowly, but a strong wind, exactly as I had pictured it.
I liked it better without the wind, I think.
And then it stops again.
Cautiously, I imagine a strong gust of wind blowing the tree above my head. Leaves fall on my head and I look up. The branches above me are shaking, but I can feel nothing down here.
“Woah,” I say.
I sit down on the sidewalk, trying to take this in. “Can you bring my hat back?” I ask the wind, not caring how silly I must sound. I imagine my hat flying back to me.
It lands in my lap. I pull it over my head. “Thanks,” I say, and then I get an idea. I imagine the wind lifting up a small rock on the ground next to me. The rock slowly rises, and then it stops and floats in the air, supported by air I can’t see, but can feel somewhere deep inside of me. I try it on a bigger rock, and the same thing happens. I let them down slowly and carefully, and then imagine the wind picking me off of the ground.
I didn’t really think that it would work, but the air rushes underneath me, and slowly, gently lifts me until I can no long feel the ground under me.
I almost burst out, but I’m afraid that if I say anything, it’ll be ruined. Instead I let it take me higher and higher, until I am sitting about as high as the tree branches. I can feel the air under me. It doesn’t stay still like the ground. It’s always moving, rushing around, but it feels sturdy nonetheless. Trust comes easy, like I have been sitting on air my whole life.
I realize that I need to get home, that my poor mother is probably worried about me. I let the wind set me down, my feet on the sidewalk. But then I think again, and hover an inch above the ground. I let the wind carry me home.
I have no idea what I am doing, but it feels so natural, so right.
I wonder if this is because of the tumor, if something is messed up my head that is letting me do this. But I don’t care what it is. This is something. Not something that I can tell Oprah about, but something nonetheless. It’s something other than dying, something incredible.
When I get home, I step on the real ground. I don’t need to add more worries to my mom’s plate.
“How was it? Are you okay? You look out of breath,” she gushes.
“Trust me, I have enough air,” I say.
Dagger's Choice: PlathAddict16! You had me at the line "This was going to be even tougher than explaining why Dad borrows mom’s shoes Friday nights."
The day that I woke up as a pillow was the absolute worst. I mean, I've had some pretty terrible days (like the time I accidentally stapled a paper to my crush's hand), but this one took the cake. I went to sleep an abnormal, slightly unhealthy person and awoke as a blinking inanimate object. I always knew this would happen, but I hoped my first time would have a more dignified cast to it. I mean, my sister started out as a blender. At least that has some whirrrr to it.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. I could have really humiliated myself like Cousin Alvie did and begin my shape-shifting career as a doormat (something that occurs naturally in humans!). But let’s be serious here.
Of course, the real difficulty in this is UN-shifting. It isn’t all like the movies, you know. We don’t just blink and magically grow purple hair or turn into armchairs. This is a skill. A craft, which must be nurtured and honed.
And it was one that was currently kicking my feathers.
I really hoped my little brother wouldn’t run in and decide to have a pillow fight; I wasn’t entirely sure how to tell this to him. This was going to be even tougher than explaining why Dad borrows mom’s shoes Friday nights.
Oh God. Was that the pitter patter of five year old feet? I really needed to get a move on with this. You should see what he did to the last pillow he encountered.
I screwed up my eyes (don’t argue!), I wrinkled my nose and poof!
I turned into a flea. I sighed. At least things were looking up.
Dagger's Runners-Up:
Well done, all you rangers of writing! (Get it? Rangers? Like Aragorn? Am I the only one still stuck on the LOTR thing?) Now sharpen your internet pencils and get to work on ONE of the following prompts:
Imagine that you wake up and find yourself in the Gryffindor common room. Awesome!—except, you're Lord Voldemort. What's your next move?
You are one of two surviving competitors in the 75th Annual Hunger Games. The other competitor is your twin brother. You are standing 10 feet away from him with a knife in your hand. What do you do?
The president calls and informs you that a nuclear bomb is hidden somewhere inside your crush's house. He tasks you with finding and dismantling it. You have one hour. What happens next?
So many choices! Which prompt will you choose?
Related post: Writer Wars Archive
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Tags: writing, fiction, writers, short stories, lotr, sparkler fiction, writer wars, aragorn
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