Let Spread Some Hope With Our Writing

Let Spread Some Hope With Our Writing

I wrote this a long time ago, the day I found out our family was going to be evicted from a rundown trailer park. This was before Christmas. I prayed and prayed. I cried, and eventually, I wrote until this story was completed. I was considering fixing the run-on sentences and a few other things. Then, I realized that I want others to see that I am not perfect . . . no one is perfect. It is okay to make mistakes, to be sad, but the most important thing to do is to move on. We need to pick ourselves up and uplift those around us. This is why I write. Writing heals the soul, and it brings us together. I am proud to show you a little part of my writing past in this short story called Hope.

“Hope”

By: Miranda Lynn Pechon (My maiden name)

There was once a Princess who lay alone on top of a straw mattress in the tower of a locked abandoned castle. Her clothes had been tarnished with the soot of the tower. Her face, however, fare it was, was now covered with the same dust and so were her hands and feet. There were no windows in this tower. The furnishings were minimal, and what was there were lined with cobwebs. Only a cellar filled with books and candles occupied the Princess’s time. Every day she would pace the staircase to keep up her strength. Food was brought to her by the rats that had tunneled in between the smaller stones of the walls. These rats were her friends, although they too were covered in soot, they had been in and out of the tower’s library and had seen many wondrous things.

The rats would surround her with scrolls of fine art, sheets of music, and taught her all things that could be written and then some. Soon the Princess would fill her hunger with words, and of hope. A hope to one day experience and share these words.

She eventually she grew sad. She had, one morning, come across a scroll with a story of a fairytale; A tale of a prince who went to the tallest tower to rescue a woman with long golden hair.  The prince called to her and she extended her hair out the window and they lived happily ever after.

The Princess looked at her own hair; it was as dark as coal. Then she looked around, there were no windows.  The Princess threw the scroll and, in a fit, she locked the library doors and ran to her room atop of the tower and cried herself to sleep. She no longer wanted to read or eat, and nor could she sleep. All she could do was wait for a Prince that would never come. The rats began to worry.

Days later. . . When the Princess was too weak to walk, she heard a familiar squeak. Her voice was dry as she told her favorite little mouse to enter. She turned to one side to watch the mouse’s advance. He was a small grey little fellow with bright blue eyes. He smiled, as well as a mouse could, and gave her a very old scroll. At first, the Princess did not want it, but the mouse described, it was not for her but for him. He could not make out the words and knowing she was well versed in reading, he pleaded with her to enlighten him.

“Why, they are depictions, not words.” She stated while sitting up to show the mouse. “You see here, this is an old scroll made by the monks. This is a picture of a man hands clasped palm to palm.”  She described.

“Why is he doing that?” asked the curious creature.

“Well, he is asking for hope.” She paused to see a giant grin on the furry big-eyed animal.    “What a clever little mouse.” She thought aloud as the mouse ran off leaving her the scroll.

That night the Princess went to an empty part of the tower with the piece of parchment. She felt a bit silly but positioned herself the way the pictured showed and asked for hope. Not but suddenly after the words escaped her lips, she began to cry. She cried harder than she had ever cried until her tears of sorrow became tears of joy. That joy filled her body letting her forget her loneliness and weakness and caused her so that she might run down to the library and reunite herself with her faithful rats and their room on knowledge.

However, when she opened the door there was no room, only a meadow, and there were not faithful rats, only beautiful people. She did not feel out of place for her tears of joy, of hope, had washed the soot away. Amongst all the familiar people in the meadow stood a man in a grey suit with eyes more blue than that of the clearest sea. With a warm embrace, he stated, “I am glad you have come back to us.”

Thank you. Be yourself, and as always . . . Keep writing!

Love Miranda


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