Writing Prompt: 10-31-2014
Origin: “Robinson Crusoe,” by Donato Giancola. I do not know this artist or his other work, so if you decide to look him up, I would advice caution.
Feeling inspired? Tell his story. You can leave a response in the comments or move the prompt to your blog and leave a link in the comments. I can’t wait to see what you come up with!
[I really look forward to being able to read anything you write from this prompt, and I expect to enjoy it very much and for my readers to also enjoy it. That said, please keep everything as clean as it gets because otherwise I will delete the comment or link to your blog.”Only what is good for building up…” If in doubt, ask. My contact information is on the About page.]
Red Lettering 
Naturally. His father had hinted that if he left home, terrible things would come of it. But Coren–soaking wet, bruised, and half-drowned–knew only a sense of excitement as he explored the ruins of the ship that had tried to carry him across the sea. He snorted disdainfully with a sense of new-found freedom.
The sailors had warned him it might be useless to search for it. When the ship had broken against the rocks in the storm, the chests could have fallen through to the bottom of the sea. Still, he had to be certain. Just because he had left behind his home, didn’t mean he didn’t want reminders of who he truly was. If he did find it, he probably shouldn’t carry it around; that would attract all the wrong sort of attention. But to know it was near…
His foot caught on a broken beam, and he sprawled headlong into the frothing water. If only his family and friends could see him now–clothed in the tattered rags of a mortal and splashing around in the sea like some drunkard. Sputtering, he staggered to his feet, and held himself up on the dangling robes. He brushed his hair off his face, the strands clinging to his pointed ears.
Abruptly, his eyes fixed on a chest in the shadows behind part of the torn sail. Ducking through the wreck, he reached it and forced open the lid. Yes, yes, it was all here. He tossed out ruined elven garments with a snort, wondering why he’d even bothered to bring them in the first place. But there! There at the bottom, gleamed his sword. Fondly, he caught it up. Light sprang to the silver, brightening it so he was nearly blinded. He wrapped the sword in a bit of torn canvas, but paused as he was about to pull the cloth over the hilt. Inset in the gold, was the symbol of a crescent moon above a tree. The symbol of the elven lords.
Stepping back out, he surveyed the golden beach before him, the churning sea beside him, and the rolling gold hills beyond him. Even with the ocean at its feet, the land was so dry, so desperate to drink. He had come to bring its people the water they did not even know they needed. This was his choice. His life. His mission.
I wouldn’t have even thought of the man in the picture being an elf until your story… And now all I can see is one. :p This is very good! I felt like the mood changed somewhere directly before the last paragraph, though that might just have been me… Before that, the impression that I got was something of a “prodigal son” type feel, but after the fourth paragraph, it completely vanished, which made me feel a little odd. I may have been the only one who got that impression, though.
Yes, that does make Coren a bit strange. Some elves MIGHT consider him a prodigal son because of his odd rejection of their ways. But in truth, he’s got the heart of a missionary, and….and let’s just say he’s in one of my books… 😉
Even while slogging through the sorry remains of his ship, Callum’s spirit remained that of a poet. Albeit, a jaded poet. “This ship is a picture of my trust in Cousin Stewart.” He said to himself. “That’s the last time I ever buy a map and ship from him!”
This is good. 🙂 Thank you for using the word jaded. That word deserves more use than it gets now, and I was pleased to see it in there. :p