Bikes and Writing Prompts!

It's that time again. Monday! You got that motivation? We got that motivation, baby! Before we get into it, a little fun thought. How long has it been since you've ridden a bicycle? I rode one yesterday for the first time in about twenty years and I have to say- terrifying. Who decided we should do this? Our mortal frames are so frail and easy to break and here we are testing fate by balancing on two feels really fast...

That being said I had a blast and plan to keep it up.

Also, has anyone else been out of real shoes so long because of Covid that when they put them on they end up with blisters? Or is that just me?

ANYWAY! Creative talk:

How do you deal with art/writer's block? Personally? I push through it. Even if I don't feel like creating, I force myself to create even if I hate what I wind up creating. Somehow, that always makes me forget I was blocked and pushes me forward. It gets gradually easier everyday. I know that doesn't work for everyone, so let's hear some other tips and tricks in the comments.

Today's Prompt is: A Dagger

Don't forget to join me for this one, babes.

A Dagger

He twisted the delicate knife in his hand. The hilt was short, just big enough for his hand to wrap around (and even that, just barely so). It was a dark, faded blue and the grip was wearing. He could see the metal studs hidden inside it that kept it attached to the blade that curved away from the hilt.

The blade itself was black, not from age but because the metal had been made so during smithing. It seemed the blade was for a smaller race than his, cared for over the ages. If he had to wager a guess then he’d say it was at least a century old. Turning it over again, he placed the blade against his palm and felt the smooth and sharp metal all the way along the edge, careful not to cut himself.

It was a wonder, really. The thing had been lying carelessly on the edge of the forest. He’d almost left it there- the blade had looked too perfect and too well cared for to be discarded for no reason. He was certain it had to be cursed. A quick spell had proven the blade was safe so he’d taken it and asked around. No one in town recognized it and so he decided he would keep it as his own.

He imagined the person who had belonged to this blade had been a woman, possibly young, possibly of a smaller race that dwelt to the east. They had traveled far and wide, had fought and won battles. Then they’d come to a pub just like the one he sat in now, hood pulled over his face. They’d turn the knife over in their hands, clean it of blood, polish it, buff it, care for it as though it were a beloved companion.

And in his mind, it was. Beloved.

He slipped the knife in his belt and then leaned back, imagining the young woman caring for her blade and giving it a practice slash and then doing the same, putting it to rest with her other weapons. How had she lost it? He liked to think that she had lost it on accident. It’d fallen out of its sheath while she leapt onto the back of a cart. She’d had to leave town in a hurry and the dagger had fallen without her knowing it.

No one would drop such a precious thing on purpose. He had faith in that.

Even now, the dagger was a story. A story that joined the many others he carried with him on his journeys. He would make certain that the dagger returned to the small people he was certain it came from and that, along the way, it would have many more stories to tell.