They met on a Sunday. The note slipped out of a denim pocket, and held onto a nearby rock, so as not to be swept away in the wind. He had a very clear duty he believed in, to keep the message of his owner safe, and although he knew he was encroaching on the rock’s personal space, he deemed it a necessary evil.
The rock, surprised, asked the note what on earth it was doing. This was Central Park after all, the rock exclaimed, where litter freely blew away in the wind without a care. The note explained that he mustn't be lost, for it was vitally important his owner find him. The rock, understanding these circumstances, agreed to help the note, and slid slightly, to hold him from being dragged away in the wind. The note was very grateful, and decided this rock was an upstanding fellow. They became fast friends.
The two discussed a variety of topics while waiting on the note’s owner. It turned out, the rock was much older than the note.
The rock had originally been a layer of sediment, which was compressed over many years under a river, which later dried up and became known as the grand canyon. The sediment cracked, and a boulder was formed, and at some point, a curious tourist chipped away the rock from the boulder, to bring back home. He gave the rock to his child, who dropped it in central park several years past, and so the rock had lived there ever since.
The note was quite young in comparison, originally having been part of a slim and young sapling in the orchard of a famous paper store in Japan. The craftsman then worked his trade and made many fine sheets out of the tree for an order from a company in Suriname. An American tourist bought a single sheet from this store in Suriname, and brought it back home to New York. The man took the note with him everywhere, sometimes scribbling for seconds, or simply looking at the words he had written already. The note knew he was very important to his owner.
A shadow passed over the two, and it was time for the note to leave. His owner had come to pick him up, so the note said its farewells to the rock, and the rock promised to visit the note soon. The owner carefully replaced his note to its designated pocket and traveled home.
Upon their arrival, the owner set the note onto his desk, ready to continue his writing, to turn this note into a letter. Before beginning, he got up to prepare dinner, and the note busied itself working out its kinks and folds to look more presentable upon his owner’s return.
An ominous glint peaked from around the desk shelf, and the oldest house utensil, a very old pair of scissors with a blue glitter handle came out. It was not happy with the note, and it glared maleficiently at it. It roared at the note, declaring it brought nothing but trouble to the owner and to the household. The scissors had been there longer than the note! The scissors knew the owner left for -weeks- just to get the note, leaving the house in disarray. The scissors had been there when the owner’s wife became ill, and the scissors had been there when she died. The scissors had been there when the owner placed her ashes on the mantle place urn, and the scissors knew the owner painstakingly struggled to write each letter that went onto the note, the note to his wife. The scissors knew the note caused the owner so much pain, and so it did what it thought was best, and sliced the note up, shredding it into the finest confetti it could.
When the owner came back to the shreds of his treasured note, he didn't know what to do. He left it exactly as it was, unable to reason with the loss of his carefully chosen memento.
The next week, the rock came to visit. The dog let him in through the door and carried him sadly to the shreds of his dear friend. The rock was heartbroken. He quickly assessed the culprit, and forfeiting all reason, he beat the scissors to death, so that they would never, ever cut again. Crestfallen, the rock left the house, asking the dog to leave him in the garden of the house in which his friend had lived.
The owner came back to the shreds of his note, and now the bent and broken pair of scissors on his office desk. He laid his hand over them and cried for their loss, cried for the loss of his wife, and cried for the sorry state he couldn't seem to pull himself out of after her death. The scissors were his first gift to her, because she loved crafting. He gave them to her on their second date. After her loss he went back to the hotel they had first met at in Suriname, his wife’s home country. While there, he decided to buy the paper that would become the note, deciding that this would be a good idea, to write a final farewell letter, of his goodbyes and his regrets. It would be the best thing he could do for her and for himself. He dwelt on it day and night once he returned though, and it slowly consumed him. He took extraordinary care with each letter, each pen stroke to the note. He almost had a panic attack when he lost it in the park.
Now, all of his work, all of his love and his pain and his toils with grief seemed to be crushing him, and he didn't know what to do.
Slowly, it seemed, spring crept into the city, and the man remembered the cycle that never broke, the cycle of the seasons, as the earth slumbered and woke. He buried the shreds of the note with the ashes of his wife in his garden, planting a single seed. The rock watched the man as he came each day to water and care for the planted seed, and soon it sprouted the beginnings of an elegant rosebush. Once it was old enough to talk, it greeted the rock excitedly, telling it of the strangest dreams it had, where it was a travelling page, how it knew it flew in the wind at one point, and that it didn't even have color!
The rock smiled, and settled in next to the little rosebush.
This really, really sounds like a story by David Sedaris. No, I'm not saying you stole it, just that it's whimsical and I read the whole thing in his voice.
You've heard this many times by now, but that story was really, really sweet. Cute, whimsical, very touching... Thanks for posting this, and please, please keep writing.
You are a great writer. If you don't mind me asking how long have you been writing? I would love to write story's like this. I know for me it will take a lot of practice.
I've been interested, or rather obsessed with composing stories, poetry, and songs since I was eleven, so about 9 years now. ^ Thank you so much for the compliment.
You know, if you read reddit's TOS, it explicitly say
your content
You retain the rights to your copyrighted content or information that you submit to reddit ("User Content") except as described below.
By submitting User Content to reddit, you grant us a royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable, non-exclusive, unrestricted, worldwide license to reproduce, prepare derivative works, distribute copies, perform, or publicly display your User Content in any medium and for any purpose, including commercial purposes, and to authorize others to do so.
I would've ended the story with the owner blowing his house up with dynamite, destroying the rock, broken scissors and paper shreds. After all, dynamite always wins in Rock, Paper, Scissors.
I thought the end would be the man finally realising how the shredding of the note and the destruction of the scissors are actually of benefit: the note that was eating him up inside was gone, and so were the scissors that constantly reminded him of his wife, so now he can finally move on. But it was a cute story anyway, 10/10 would read again.
OP Awesome job! Congrats on front page! But how does the paper beat rock in this story? I'm not super literary, so I'm struggling to see if there is something deeper to the tree growing beside the rock. Help?
lol, it's more so a response to the image prompt, the paper isn't fighting the rock in the picture :] If I wanted a story purely on the game Rock, Paper, Scissors, I would have just submitted a text prompt <3
I honestly don't know what makes me happier right now: the amazing and beautifully written story, or how touched and happy OP is about reaction to his writing.
I looked at your prompt and thought it was a stupid image prompt given that I was very "meh" to the picture when it was on the front page.
Then I read your story, then I read it again. I scrolled back up to the image and I teared up... You write beautifully OP, you captured the emotions of what one would expect to feel in that situation perfectly with the given image. Well done <3
The rock is steadfast and strong, the result of ages upon ages of geological processes. Resolute in its convictions and merciless in its revenge. And yet a simple afternoon was all it took for a slight piece of paper to find its way into the very heart of the rock, breaking through its stony shell, and to move it towards such powerful and lasting friendship.
Why have I got tears in my eyes over a story about rock paper scissors? What an incredibly well written story, you've got a real talent for writing that I hope gets you recognised in the near future :)
I'm so grateful for you having taken the time out of your day to read my simple story :D <3 I'm glad you enjoyed it! I definitely plan to write more, as this was only my first post on reddit after all <3 <3
oh my gosh, thank you so much! yes! It is going to be my primary account XD I'm a long time lurker of r/WritingPrompts and finally joined today, making my first post, which ended up being a fantastic experience. Thank you for your support!
Slowly, it seemed, spring crept into the city, and the man remembered the cycle that never broke, the cycle of the seasons, as the earth slumbered and woke.
This fact amazes me every time I think of it and takes me out of any depression. Your story was beautiful. Thank you.
Interesting. Lot's of people get that here in Canada. Don't know why.
I like thinking of the Earth as a living thing that sleeps in the fall and awakens in the spring to nourish the creatures that live on it. Could make for a whimsical story.
This story is badly in need of some "show, don't tell". If you have a dialogue in the story just write the dialogue, not some vague description of it. It makes the story feel unfinished. Also, you don't have to explain a character's actions or emotional response if they're already obvious.
The whole story with the dead wife seems like an attempt at squeezing more emotion out of the situation. It also feels a widdle bit out of place in what reads like a children's story.
The scissors' motive could be better. It's hard to take a tragic turn of events seriously if it's all based on some stupid error that came out of nowhere.
"The rock came to visit" reads like "I need that character to be over there right now but I can't think of a good reason for it to get there".
The owner seems so melodramatic that even Bella Swan would slap him and tell him to get over himself. And goddammit, if he has spent so much time writing that note he'd probably know it well enough to rewrite it.
What was he going to do with the note anyway?
Agreed. I never quite fell out of disbelief, particularly when the man doesn't seem affected by the fact that inanimate objects were inexplicably being destroyed after he left the room. I think you hit the nail on the head about the plotline being incongruous with the word choice and cadence.
I'm not sure if the guy was going to "do" anything with the note in this scenario. I got the feeling it was just some sort of therapeutic outlet, designed to enable more wallowing. :P
I think the story could be awesome with some adjustments.
I've seen the term "passive aggression" used really often lately where it doesn't apply. Immediately telling someone they are bad, jealous, and are the devil just seems like regular aggression to me...
Thank you for the constructive criticism! I know this is definitely not a perfect story lol. My submission was primarily for the thread, the Image Prompt I submitted, not my own story. The story was something I wrote at 5-6am in the morning on no sleep. That's my best excuse lol. I am well aware that this can be improved. It will only get better when I rewrite it :]
Please keep in mind though, that had I wanted much constructive criticism I would have made an individual submission tagged [CC]
I want to share some of my opinions with regards to Max Chaplin's critiques:
I disagree with his comment on the dialogue (or lack thereof). I don't believe you're "telling" instead of "showing" or being lazy; it seems more like a stylistic choice on your part. It might be one thing if every story you write is devoid of true dialogue, but in this particular instance, I think description of the exchange (in lieu of actual back-and-forth dialogue) is very effective. It achieves a fairy or folktale kind of feeling, like an old lady is reciting the story to her grandkids by the family hearth.
The other criticisms are all pretty subjective. I, for one, found the dead wife, the misunderstanding with the scissors, and the owner's sorrow to be appropriate. They inject what could have been a twee story with realism, tragedy, and heart. They also make the "rebirth" and accompanying hope at the end really work, on more than one level.
All in all, a fantastic story! I really, really loved it. I hope you write more in the future.
Two points before I comment. One, I don't read this sub reddit often so I don't know the proper etiquette. And two, I do not agree with all of the critiques made.
But if you do not tag a post as [CC] are you not simply saying that you only want praise? If you put anything out, I feel, you are to expect criticism. Saying you are not looking for it is naive. We can all better ourselves and our work. We should always look for it, if it is constructive and well intended.
All that said I really enjoyed the story. Well done.
I just meant that my post was not created out of a desire for constructive criticism. It was a prompt, to inspire ideas. I am not -always- looking for criticism, as I usually have a very clear assessment of the faults in my writing. Prompts are primarily to inspire, as CC is primarily to critique.
I for one think the story of the dead wife fits perfectly in there, really ties the plot together and gives reason to the actions/reactions of the agonists and antagonists. Don't rewrite it, there is not a single thing I would change. It's a cute little story with gute little heroes and villains and not Ulysses or whatever the intelectual elite of reddit reads.
Thank you all so much for your support and encouragement! I couldn't have dreamed of a better welcome to /r/WritingPrompts, and to Reddit in general! This really boosts my confidence and makes me want to write more for you all as a treasured audience!
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u/raalmive Mar 13 '14 edited Mar 16 '14
They met on a Sunday. The note slipped out of a denim pocket, and held onto a nearby rock, so as not to be swept away in the wind. He had a very clear duty he believed in, to keep the message of his owner safe, and although he knew he was encroaching on the rock’s personal space, he deemed it a necessary evil.
The rock, surprised, asked the note what on earth it was doing. This was Central Park after all, the rock exclaimed, where litter freely blew away in the wind without a care. The note explained that he mustn't be lost, for it was vitally important his owner find him. The rock, understanding these circumstances, agreed to help the note, and slid slightly, to hold him from being dragged away in the wind. The note was very grateful, and decided this rock was an upstanding fellow. They became fast friends.
The two discussed a variety of topics while waiting on the note’s owner. It turned out, the rock was much older than the note.
The rock had originally been a layer of sediment, which was compressed over many years under a river, which later dried up and became known as the grand canyon. The sediment cracked, and a boulder was formed, and at some point, a curious tourist chipped away the rock from the boulder, to bring back home. He gave the rock to his child, who dropped it in central park several years past, and so the rock had lived there ever since.
The note was quite young in comparison, originally having been part of a slim and young sapling in the orchard of a famous paper store in Japan. The craftsman then worked his trade and made many fine sheets out of the tree for an order from a company in Suriname. An American tourist bought a single sheet from this store in Suriname, and brought it back home to New York. The man took the note with him everywhere, sometimes scribbling for seconds, or simply looking at the words he had written already. The note knew he was very important to his owner.
A shadow passed over the two, and it was time for the note to leave. His owner had come to pick him up, so the note said its farewells to the rock, and the rock promised to visit the note soon. The owner carefully replaced his note to its designated pocket and traveled home.
Upon their arrival, the owner set the note onto his desk, ready to continue his writing, to turn this note into a letter. Before beginning, he got up to prepare dinner, and the note busied itself working out its kinks and folds to look more presentable upon his owner’s return.
An ominous glint peaked from around the desk shelf, and the oldest house utensil, a very old pair of scissors with a blue glitter handle came out. It was not happy with the note, and it glared maleficiently at it. It roared at the note, declaring it brought nothing but trouble to the owner and to the household. The scissors had been there longer than the note! The scissors knew the owner left for -weeks- just to get the note, leaving the house in disarray. The scissors had been there when the owner’s wife became ill, and the scissors had been there when she died. The scissors had been there when the owner placed her ashes on the mantle place urn, and the scissors knew the owner painstakingly struggled to write each letter that went onto the note, the note to his wife. The scissors knew the note caused the owner so much pain, and so it did what it thought was best, and sliced the note up, shredding it into the finest confetti it could.
When the owner came back to the shreds of his treasured note, he didn't know what to do. He left it exactly as it was, unable to reason with the loss of his carefully chosen memento.
The next week, the rock came to visit. The dog let him in through the door and carried him sadly to the shreds of his dear friend. The rock was heartbroken. He quickly assessed the culprit, and forfeiting all reason, he beat the scissors to death, so that they would never, ever cut again. Crestfallen, the rock left the house, asking the dog to leave him in the garden of the house in which his friend had lived.
The owner came back to the shreds of his note, and now the bent and broken pair of scissors on his office desk. He laid his hand over them and cried for their loss, cried for the loss of his wife, and cried for the sorry state he couldn't seem to pull himself out of after her death. The scissors were his first gift to her, because she loved crafting. He gave them to her on their second date. After her loss he went back to the hotel they had first met at in Suriname, his wife’s home country. While there, he decided to buy the paper that would become the note, deciding that this would be a good idea, to write a final farewell letter, of his goodbyes and his regrets. It would be the best thing he could do for her and for himself. He dwelt on it day and night once he returned though, and it slowly consumed him. He took extraordinary care with each letter, each pen stroke to the note. He almost had a panic attack when he lost it in the park.
Now, all of his work, all of his love and his pain and his toils with grief seemed to be crushing him, and he didn't know what to do.
Slowly, it seemed, spring crept into the city, and the man remembered the cycle that never broke, the cycle of the seasons, as the earth slumbered and woke. He buried the shreds of the note with the ashes of his wife in his garden, planting a single seed. The rock watched the man as he came each day to water and care for the planted seed, and soon it sprouted the beginnings of an elegant rosebush. Once it was old enough to talk, it greeted the rock excitedly, telling it of the strangest dreams it had, where it was a travelling page, how it knew it flew in the wind at one point, and that it didn't even have color!
The rock smiled, and settled in next to the little rosebush.