A Challenge of Her Own

By: Remedie Posted on: July 28, 2012

Like many a day long past,

She began this one just the same,

Allowing the day to tend to itself,

And all worries themselves to claim.

She would find her inspiration,

When she peeled all distractions away,

But this day inspiration came,

By what the Lord Smith had to say.

"A contest," He bellowed, "come one, come all,

Crafters of every skill,

Create for Me, but no poems please,

Leave the sissy Scarlattans to wield the quill."

A small smile greeted His words,

And she offered a challenge of her own,

Herself, her quill, her imagination,

Against any of His better known.

After a moment, He beckoned His chef,

A culinary master eager to please,

A portable stove and rift full of ingredients,

His creations soon flavoured the breeze.

Dish upon dish, he passed to the crowd,

Amongst grins and expressions of praise,

But all fell still as a small voice,

Grew louder amidst the craze.

A worn journal cradled in her hands,

She had chosen a page at will,

Her sultry voice resurrecting the words,

Laid to rest by ink and quill.

The story slowly came to life,

Each word swollen with emotion,

A chuckle, a tear, a gasp, a sigh,

Lay witness to the crowd's devotion.

Untouched food upon their plates,

Her story ended at last,

Their hunger long forgotten,

During the tale of her adventurous past.

With a slight nod, He sent forth a tailor,

Her pieces and skill renown,

And the crowed oohed and aahed,

As she pulled forth a shimmering gown.

Its workmanship was stunning,

Indeed, a creation to behold,

Beautifully draped, it flowed from her fingers,

Like glimmering liquid gold.

But one by one attentions turned,

To the girl standing quietly by,

Her short airy shift and tiny bare feet,

Drawing many a curious eye.

Suffering etched upon her face,

She began a haunting dance,

A silent rendering, a retelling of,

Some tragic happenstance.

Her simply spun shift did its part,

Helping tell the story as well,

Dancing in tandem with her body,

Over every crevasse and swell.

The only movements the rise and fall of her chest,

As she finished upon the floor,

And the crudely stitched quill riding her breaths,

In tune to chants of "Encore!"

With fun-filled smiles the jovial crowd,

Began to place light-hearted bets,

On which of His talented Chosen,

The Smith would send forth next.

The answer came soon enough,

When out from the crowd stepped a man,

A hammer of forging gripped tightly in,

His powerful vice-like hand.

The crowd followed like lemmings,

As he walked to the forge nearby,

You could have heard a pin drop,

As he raised his hammer high.

With a practised hand, he guided his hammer,

Against the heat-softened steel,

The formless metal taking shape,

As it bent to his will.

The crowd gasped in unison,

As the forger finally held aloft a sword,

Its exquisite craftsmanship gleaming brightly,

And for the moment the girl was ignored.

But not to be outdone,

She took the offensive,

And displayed for all a drying canvas,

That was equally impressive.

In painstaking detail and breathtaking colour,

Was a depiction of the forger and his Lord,

The Smith's face caught in a moment of pride,

As He watched His Chosen work the forge.

It seemed this merry contest,

Was about to end in a draw,

But then a marshal of the Smith approached,

And even the girl watched in awe.

As she stood before this battle scarred man,

She gripped her shift and curtsied low,

To the man who pledged his life to Creation,

It was the only honour she could bestow.

So easily he could crush her,

With one powerful sword stroke,

But this champion for Creation,

Simply stood before the crowd and spoke.

"I made a vow long ago,

To protect all Creation,

And I declare this girl's works,

As deserving of my station.

Her story, dance, and painting,

Albeit different, creations still."

And the warrior laid his mighty sword,

At the feet of the girl proudly wielding her quill.

The crowd roared,

And lifted her off her feet,

The cook took to his stove,

And served up a feast.

The tailor gifted her with,

The shimmering gown,

And the Lord Smith passed,

His best ale around.

The forger presented the sword,

Still warm from the fire,

To honour the painting,

He helped to inspire.

So the celebration concluded,

The contest amongst friends,

And all left with the camaraderie,

Such merriment lends.

The canvas of the Smith and His Chosen,

Remains displayed still,

Marked in the lower right corner,

By a small curling quill.