Let me tell you a story…

Once upon a time, there was a story.  It was not a bad story; its form was pleasing if traditional and while it did not burn hot through the night sky it contained a spark of something that glowed, if faintly, of something more.

Its maker was not without experience but had not played with a story in some time.  He fashioned it from a picture in his mind, shaping a tale about the scene.  Then he shaved down the rough spots, added filigree and shiny-bits, striving to make it, if not perfect, then good enough.  When he pronounced it ready, he gave it over to those who would judge it, comparing it to others and contrasting its spark with that of other stories.

The judges spoke and of all the stories they were given, the story was considered, if not perfect, then it was right enough.  The maker won a small prize and the felt a warmth start to grow in his heart.  He wanted to feel that warmth again, so he sat down to create another story.  Perhaps this one would be closer to perfect and not just good enough.

But what became of the first story?  Well, the maker reasoned, if the judges felt his story was good enough, then perhaps someone would be willing to buy it. So he polished it once again and began sending it out into the wide world in hopes of a modicum of fame, fortune, or even both.

Again and again and again the story was sent.  The maker sent it to those that would give much for good stories, and then finally to those who gave what little they could. Most simply rejected it without comment.  Some took a moment to compliment it, saying that while it was a good enough story, it wasn’t what they wanted.  The maker polished the story more, fanning its inner spark, and sent it out again.  But the more the maker looked at his first creation, the more he realized that the spark was really quite small and flickered like a sputtering candle flame.  The story was good enough, but could never be anything more.

The maker had a small trunk that he carried with him on all his journeys.  It was empty and smelled sweet, like grass in the morning and honey wine.  He placed the story in trunk, its tiny spark winking at him through the shadows as he slowly shut the lid.

As any followers of my blog know, I have had several stories traveling in the “Hope and Rejection Tour” since last year.  I’ve decided it’s time to put one of those stories to rest.  I still like the story, but have actually learned a few more things about writing since I wrote it.  I’ve tried several revisions, but I think it’s time to let this one go.  If you’re interested, you’ll find it in its original award-winning form on the Standalone Stories page under its title, Teo Torriatte.