They saw each other in the Aesop Hall, and spared a moment to glare at each other before passing by.
Two aspiring authors who lived in the land of Homer, governed by Queen Rena Siance, were competing for the Writer's Wreath in an event held only once every two years: The Author Olympics.
There were dozens of competitors, to be sure, but these two were highly respected by their peers and recognized by their teachers, famous authors, and even the queen herself as geniuses who tapped into the very core of literature, mastered every form of poetry and prose, conquered the seemingly unyielding nature of language, every phrase and line so thoroughly subdued that the words flowed into the minds of the readers and brought their works to life.
As the day drew near, their peers scrambled to come up with something, but the rivals set to work immediately, the words flowing to their minds as naturally as they did for the readers, and finished before the week's end.
At the end of the week the country's eyes turned to the arena, an auditorium the site of plays and pitched battles between poets, or potential suitors for the nobility, as it had been for hundreds of years. The rivals sang out their words, moving the crowd, as ever, to great a great many tears, and the biannual mix of bitter joy at the near victory and relief of being a close second, the gratitude of having a sole rival to fight against.
The youths drenched with sweat now walked away, and left me to stand there. The last place in the contest the year before always sang after the third, second, and first from the year before, this year I held the honor of being the last voice echoed throughout the auditorium.
I don't remember what it was, it's been decades now, but the idea I wrestled with before thousands of hundreds of eyes, was the question of what made the sport which we participated in, if it was all opinions, if we only perceived the art as an art, if the perimeters made the sport a sport, if a fledgling like a young boy could possibly stand a chance against a master, likened to a seasoned warrior, if I stood a chance, if I'd fade or be remembered, would my echoes ever die away, or resound in the hearts of those who heard me.
I won that year, and the years that followed saw the same pattern as before, Romeo and Juliet later retired from the scene and went on to become business partners, I taught at that school, where I delivered my question that earned me the memories of my people. My words have since been recorded somewhere in the records, amidst the ancient masters, hiding in a book that broke the pattern of red and blue, sitting in the leafs between Romeo and Juliet.760Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiBnUuw7IBF
A/Ns: It was interesting? I might do a funny one next, going to have to ask lightofshadows if I'm allowed to do multiple entries.760Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQwXg09cOlc
