Background: This paragraph is one I wrote while learning and reading about magical realism, real objects or things in life that can be transformed into stories of descriptions, making these simple things come to life and have meaning. This excerpt is about an object we take for granted everyday have significance and soul.
Parents: Guess what this object is.
The frail, wrinkled man's hands fell to a tremble once his creation was completed. His olive, oval eyes glowed, absorbing the reflections of innovation. But what was this creation? Some cylindered stick? Some mixed up concentrated chemicals? No, his creation kept a gift inside of its aligned, sleek finger that led, composed, and symphonized the real, unreal, and magics. It was pride's blood, the thermal tears of the skies. This potion was drunk by those who intoxicated themselves in their emergence, who knew exactly where they stood, and could tell anyone. It captured purpose from the depths of the darkest holes, the fiercest currents, and the greatest tales. This was the prophecy of memory, the thump of revelations, and the bridge to permanence. It was the home for words, where they could curl in and out of their tenses, stretch their legs, and twist their meanings. Or was this creation a goblin that droughts and contorts your reality, shriveling your conscience? Was it the last breaths of air before drowning into the land of literature? Could it be the the merciless truths we cover our influenced eyes from? This potion had flooded, liquefied and stained the trenches of papered pores. The old man looked up at his thoughts swarming over him. His creation was to open new doors of new stories without a voice, without sound. He licked his cracked lips, exhaled a stagnant heap of air, and began to tell.
Francesca, Senior, California
Answer: A pen.
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