When it was claimed that Pandora's Box was opened, she was blamed for the destruction in the way the world is today. Why there's now war and hate and sickness and backstabbing in the name of love. There are so many things to blame the happenings of it on, but the question is never asked of who created the box, nor how the items inside the box were created.
It didn't take long for the job to get done out on our farm. We were previously tasked with building a small shelter for the chickens we had running around. It took a lot out of me to piece together, but eventually it all ended up becoming one of the best things I'd ever created. I knew what I was talking about too, I'm an artist.
At least an artist is what I want to call myself. I enjoyed drawing and building, just creating things with my hands that turn out being far more beautiful than I could have imagined. More than anything, however, I loved to write. There's just something about world building and creating a reality out of the little things spawning from your imagination that creates a spark, motivating me to work as hard as I do to attempt to make it a reality.
No, I don't expect for some small fantasy like people suddenly having the ability to fly to suddenly come into existence. I, instead, work toward making things better for people so that they might present their best selves to me. I remember hearing that same quote from a famous actor of the past, but I follow that way of living nonetheless.
After I'd finished crafting the chicken coop, however, something took a turn for the worst. I knew I loved working out on the farm and writing about it from time to time, but I didn't expect for something I'd written last night to actually happen. Before me, a chicken had just laid an egg. The eggs out here are typically white or nearly pink. Rarely ever would the egg turn a different color, but before me stood a blue egg that I had just watched a chicken lay and run away from.
I had to do a double take. Did that really just happen? I know last night I wrote an Easter story about a chicken laying different colored eggs and handing them out to children, as they had chocolate inside. I picked up the egg and turned it over in my hands a few times to make sure it was real. It was. I then decided that if my story was, in fact, true, there would be chocolate inside.
The thought of breaking it open crossed my mind several times, but I ended up choosing not to. I wanted to protect it and show it to people later down the line. So I brought it to the kitchen, grabbed an empty egg carton, and stuffed it inside.
After I got home, I went to show my brother the egg I'd found. He laughed in complete disbelief that the egg was actually laid like that. I brought the carton over to the fridge and stuffed it inside. I knew this would be the perfect conversation piece next time I have people over. Of course, the egg spoiling and smelling bed was something I needed to take into consideration.
I went off to my room to write a story. I found myself inspired by what happened today so much so, that I decided to write about something I knew would never happen. After all, I needed some kind of proof that the stuff I was writing wasn't actually coming true.
I wrote about the fountain that sat in the middle of town. The water, once consumed, had the ability to make your deepest desire to come to life. The story turned into a man, knowing his mother was sick and dying, to take a drink of the water and wishing for nothing more than for her to live. He would return home and be saddened by the fact that no matter how hard he wished, she was still sick. When he woke up the next morning, however, he found that she was running around as healthy as could be.
I ended the story there and decided to call it a night.
I woke up the next morning to the smell of bacon and eggs. This was probably my favorite kind of breakfast. After all, what better way is there to start the morning than to consume such delicious protein?
After breakfast I took a look in the fridge to find that there was no egg carton inside. I turned to him, asking what had happened to it. He responded by pointing to his plate of half eaten eggs. Had he really cooked up my blue egg? I didn't even get the chance to take a picture of it. And without a doubt, if I had, I would be called a liar, claiming the egg had been photoshopped. I had experience with it but I would never attempt to convince someone of a lie like that.
I was furious at my brother, so I made my way into town and took a drink out of the water fountain. I wished nothing but suffering for him. It didn't take long to calm myself down. I didn't actually want anything like that to happen to my brother. He was all the family I had left.
I knew I didn't have anything to worry about. After all, in the story from the night before, the egg had chocolate inside. He'd just proven to me the egg was a normal one. So with that said, there was no doubt that the blue egg was nothing more than a coincidence. That was until I came home and saw him laying on the couch, dead.
It didn't take long for the job to get done out on our farm. We were previously tasked with building a small shelter for the chickens we had running around. It took a lot out of me to piece together, but eventually it all ended up becoming one of the best things I'd ever created. I knew what I was talking about too, I'm an artist.
At least an artist is what I want to call myself. I enjoyed drawing and building, just creating things with my hands that turn out being far more beautiful than I could have imagined. More than anything, however, I loved to write. There's just something about world building and creating a reality out of the little things spawning from your imagination that creates a spark, motivating me to work as hard as I do to attempt to make it a reality.
No, I don't expect for some small fantasy like people suddenly having the ability to fly to suddenly come into existence. I, instead, work toward making things better for people so that they might present their best selves to me. I remember hearing that same quote from a famous actor of the past, but I follow that way of living nonetheless.
After I'd finished crafting the chicken coop, however, something took a turn for the worst. I knew I loved working out on the farm and writing about it from time to time, but I didn't expect for something I'd written last night to actually happen. Before me, a chicken had just laid an egg. The eggs out here are typically white or nearly pink. Rarely ever would the egg turn a different color, but before me stood a blue egg that I had just watched a chicken lay and run away from.
I had to do a double take. Did that really just happen? I know last night I wrote an Easter story about a chicken laying different colored eggs and handing them out to children, as they had chocolate inside. I picked up the egg and turned it over in my hands a few times to make sure it was real. It was. I then decided that if my story was, in fact, true, there would be chocolate inside.
The thought of breaking it open crossed my mind several times, but I ended up choosing not to. I wanted to protect it and show it to people later down the line. So I brought it to the kitchen, grabbed an empty egg carton, and stuffed it inside.
After I got home, I went to show my brother the egg I'd found. He laughed in complete disbelief that the egg was actually laid like that. I brought the carton over to the fridge and stuffed it inside. I knew this would be the perfect conversation piece next time I have people over. Of course, the egg spoiling and smelling bed was something I needed to take into consideration.
I went off to my room to write a story. I found myself inspired by what happened today so much so, that I decided to write about something I knew would never happen. After all, I needed some kind of proof that the stuff I was writing wasn't actually coming true.
I wrote about the fountain that sat in the middle of town. The water, once consumed, had the ability to make your deepest desire to come to life. The story turned into a man, knowing his mother was sick and dying, to take a drink of the water and wishing for nothing more than for her to live. He would return home and be saddened by the fact that no matter how hard he wished, she was still sick. When he woke up the next morning, however, he found that she was running around as healthy as could be.
I ended the story there and decided to call it a night.
I woke up the next morning to the smell of bacon and eggs. This was probably my favorite kind of breakfast. After all, what better way is there to start the morning than to consume such delicious protein?
After breakfast I took a look in the fridge to find that there was no egg carton inside. I turned to him, asking what had happened to it. He responded by pointing to his plate of half eaten eggs. Had he really cooked up my blue egg? I didn't even get the chance to take a picture of it. And without a doubt, if I had, I would be called a liar, claiming the egg had been photoshopped. I had experience with it but I would never attempt to convince someone of a lie like that.
I was furious at my brother, so I made my way into town and took a drink out of the water fountain. I wished nothing but suffering for him. It didn't take long to calm myself down. I didn't actually want anything like that to happen to my brother. He was all the family I had left.
I knew I didn't have anything to worry about. After all, in the story from the night before, the egg had chocolate inside. He'd just proven to me the egg was a normal one. So with that said, there was no doubt that the blue egg was nothing more than a coincidence. That was until I came home and saw him laying on the couch, dead.
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