Prompt: swords are weapons. Prove me wrong
“That is not a sword.”
The knight froze. The voice was as deep as the ocean, as tall as mountains, a rumble of thunder over his head. He’d drawn his blade when his horse bolted from under him and now slowly stared up into eyes larger than his horse and a face of granite and moss even a mother could not have loved.
The giant reached down and plucked the blade between two fingernails, each as thick as the knight’s armour and definitely less clean.
“What are you going to do with it?” the knight whispered, his voice a thing of mice in burrows and fear of darkness.
“Clean Teeth. Might need new cheese knife.” The giant let out a rumble of laughter than shook clouds and turned and walked away.
Prompt: Write a poem that serves as a love letter between two inanimate objects
I used to love you. There. I’ve said it. I loved you before you started seeing someone else, when it was just you and me. When you were pure. When you were holy. When you were pristine. I loved you so much it hurt, and it hurt so much I never said.
Then came the Other. It touched you. Changed you. Turned purity into a mess, scribbled over you — and, later, me — and ruined everything. I can do nothing. I am only a desk. You are only paper. And the pen has ruined everything.
You belong to it now; you never belonged to me at all.