A/N: Another ficlet. Yes, ANOTHER one. All because someone challenged me to post a story on writing. Oh well, you can blame him. Told from Shard's perspective. Come to think of it, all of them are from his perspective. Yeah, all the ficlets are from his perspective.
"Shard, why can't we just use the computer to write the composition?" Iris asked me. I felt a crash between sadness and cuteness in my heart, and said, "Iris, we must write the story to our best of our ability." "But why?" Iris asked. "It's just a piece of writing. I don't see how it can be so important." Sadness began to take over my heart, and I said, "Iris, try to understand. Writing can be powerful, or pathetic. It is one of my hobbies to write properly and perfectly." "Well, I'm not convinced." Iris said. I refused to allow sadness to take my heart, and said, "You know what, come to my dad's house on Saturday and I will show you the power of writing." Iris gave me a confused look, shrugged, and said, "OK, I guess."
Saturday was the day I felt happiest that week. No more stupid friends to deal with, no more jealous boys trying to tear Iris from me, no more ditzy girls trying to shoo me away from Iris. To top that off, my father had agreed to leave me to Iris for the whole day. As I waited at the balcony eagerly, I saw my target walking towards to house, wearing a white blouse and a green skirt. I dashed down and called, "Iris~!" She perked up, and gave a little run to me, asking, "So, Shard, what kind of power did you want to show me?" I smiled, and motioned, "Follow me." I led her to my room, where she marvelled upon seeing it. An iron anvil lay on the floor, along with my bed, table, chairs, computer, chargers, and other things that cluttered the room. A rack of pens garnered the space near the anvil, which had a stack of writing paper neatly placed upon it. "Wow, Shard!" Iris said. "Your room looks like a blacksmith!" I chuckled, and said, "I suppose you could say that, but I'm not a blacksmith. Rather, I'm a wordsmith." Iris sat on my bed, and asked, "So, are you going to show me the power now?" I nodded, and said, "First, we must have the mould. What do you want the story to be about?" Iris thought for a while, tilting her head in that strangely adorable way of hers, before saying, "How about a sad story about a boy and girl who fall in love but are polar opposites?" I nod, and say, "OK then. Now we need the material. For this, we need the emotions that come along with the story. For example, sadness," I took out a jar filled with some tears from my cousin, and shed a tear into the jar. I replaced the jar, continued, "and love," and kissed Iris, who gladly returned said kiss. "And, of course, who could forget the hammer?" Iris asked, "Hammer? I didn't know we need to use a hammer to write a story." I chuckled, "No. But we need to write the story. An unwritten story is an idea." And so, I took a pen from the rack, and I said, "Now, just watch."
And in front of Iris' shocked eyes, I wielded my pen with experience, crafting a story from the raw feelings. The raw emotion began to take form in the ink on the paper. I continued to work away, small beads of sweat rolling down the back of my neck. Soon, I took the story from the mould, examining every little word, perfection or imperfection in the newly born piece. But of course, it didn't stop there. The next thing I did was test it, typing the entire piece on the computer and sending it off to a dear friend of mine, now online. It wasn't soon before she sent back a review, which I read with both glee and seriousness. Using the review as a way of guiding me to fix the story, I tweaked it more, fixing it according to the review's recommendations. Then, I just hit the F7 button on my computer. As I expected, the computer could not find a single error in the story. Finally I wrote everything back on a new piece of paper, every single word placed back on the new paper. I took the previous piece of paper and kept it in a file named 'Prototypes'. I said, "There, a good story all done." Iris took the story, and read it not once, not twice, but three times, her eyebrows leaping at regular intervals. "Wow, Shard! I didn't know that you could actually write such things so well!" she marvelled. I smiled, and said, "It's sort of a knack I have, can't blame me for it." Iris asked, "How about you teach me?" I gave her a smile that said, 'Definitely', and asked, "What is the story about?" "I want it to be a story about a boy who mourns his lover's drowning." she remarked. For some reason, although I nodded readily, I couldn't help but feel a chill go up my spine.