Writing is...

Written for Writing is like contest



She was in a dungeon, trapped and hopeless. There were no windows around, nor were there any true lights, just one small torch gave a low glow, barely lighting her cell.

She was terrified of being imprisoned in the dank cell. Crying silently, she wished for freedom.

The evil czar of the land had found out her secret, her hidden talent. The czar was afraid of the ability to read and write because if someone knew how to read, then they would not blindly trust him. If the pheasants asked questions and went to the people who could read, all hell would break loose when they discovered that what was written down and what was ordered was different.

Unable to burn books and scrolls, because that would raise suspicion, he sought out anyone who could read and sent them an invitation to the castle. The reader’s friends and family assumed that their loved one had a wonderful opportunity, but after they arriver (or was dragged) they were thrown into the dungeon after demonstrating their ability.

Olympia was one of the readers. Her mother had learned to read from a traveling minister. They had felt like kindred spirits, so the minister taught Olympia’s mother how to read and write, and she had passed it on to Olympia.

It was misfortune that had her reading a sign posted on the front of a cottage. The czar placed it there as a way to weed out the ones who could and could not read. The sign simply said ”Beware: Unknown Sickness”.

Olympia had warned a friend who had tried to enter the house, and pointed out the sign announced sickness. A guard had been inside listening, and within an hour she was requested to the castle. That had been three nights ago.

She cried and wished that she what she was imprisoned for. No one had told her as she was thrown in the dungeon after following a simple direction posted on the castle door to enter when she arrived.

Tears would not help anything she knew. It would only take more out of her than anything else.

Olympia sat in the gloom and began to dream of leaving the hole she was in and running to her freedom. The sun would press on her back and the winds would kiss her tears away. She could see the open loving arms of her family waiting for her and praising her for getting free. After she had her freedom, she would return to the castle and overthrow the czar by herself and become empress. She would run the kingdom with love and pride, and a loving man would be her love.

She smiled to herself as the daydream cheered her up a bit. She had plenty of time to create while she waited.

Closing her eyes Olympia could envision many different things, from finding love, getting free and traveling to strange new lands. Opening her eyes at the clanking of the food tray sliding under the cell door. She rushed to eat the first meal that she had been allowed in two days. After she ate she was scraping the remnants off of her plate, getting every crumb, when she noticed the piece of coal within reach outside her cell.

She reached for the coal, stretching as far as her arm would reach. Gleefully she cheered as her fingers wrapped around the tool. Inspired by her daydreaming and feeling stronger after eating she began to write on the walls.

She began to write the stories that she had thought of. The more she wrote, the more ideas came to her. All through the evening she scribbled fiercely on the walls and floor. So intense in her ideas and wording, she did not realize that the cell was no longer damp. Light had begun to get stronger, over powering the glow of the sputtering torch.

Faster her fingers flew holding the shrinking piece of coal as ideas flowed like a waterfall out of her. She could feel the cool breezes of the forest around her, but she ignored it, the sun began to warm her comfortably, but she did not notice it. Not until a deer nuzzled her arm did she realize that things had changed.

Olympia blinked as she looked around. As she had wrote, the dungeon ceiling had became bright sky, the floor a soft carpet of grass and leaves, and the wall that held the door now was an opening to the forest.

Unsure, she gingerly stepped out into her freedom. Her writing had somehow magically transported her to the open.
She ran through the fields crying from happiness.

The key to her happiness was her writing, and she would never forget it.



When asked what writing is to me, it is freedom. When I write I am in control of what will happen, and my characters and situations lift me up. If I am having a tough time with life, it enables me to get out of the real world for a while and into another where things are more idea. That is what writing is like to me. (858)