DRAFT

Artist, Writer, and Goddess

Long ago, in the land where the northern mountains touches the skies, a city known for wisdom and creativity won the favor of a goddess.

Such city, small and surrounded by ice and snow, thrived from the blessing of the goddess. That in order to appease their guardian, they offered her gifts; mystifying arts to breathtaking novels.

And such offerings pleased the goddess.

Everyone offered their masterpieces to her. For blessing, for luck, for livelihood, or anything they desired.

And in turn, she granted them her blessing.

Yet, among them, the goddess favored a single soul. A soul with ink for blood, pages and shelves for intellect, and dreams that's blessed by Nótt herself.

A single soul, a scribe among the bountiful talented beings, that took the goddess' highest regards.

For talent?

No. It was not that.

The goddess did not favor the scribe's talent. For talent does not encompass the scribe that the goddess favored.

How could she admire the writings of the scribe, if one of the offering was--

Roses are red,
the sky is awake,
may the goddess bless me,
For I am cooking steak.

The goddess, as admirable the intent of poetry was, and she was honored by such offering, cannot grant the blessing that was requested. As the Einherjar of Valhalla may be the hungriest of all, defeating Thor's insatiable hunger, even they would not touch the meal prepared by the scribe.

Come forth, o goddess,
Heed my plea,
Grant me safe passage,
From the kitchen I burned.

Oh how the goddess does not favor her blessed scribe's offerings.

But what did the goddess favored from a scribe without talent, you ask?

It was a simple thing, one that others rarely have.

Devotion to the arts and crafts.

That even if the scribe could not prepare a decent meal for her people or write an ode that would make the Valkyries sing, the scribe never gave up.

The scribe continued to seek refinement and attain perfection.

That is, until the village was burned to the ground by her attempt to roast a pig in the festivities' bon fire.

#

"I'm sure that this is a written proof that I would never let you cook again," said the Artist after she read the sample story of her flatmate.

The Artist and the Writer just finished cleaning up the 'almost inferno' kitchen after the Writer's attempt to cook steak for dinner. The Artist blamed herself for such incident. She was too busy with her recent commissions that she forgot to prepare their dinner.

"The recipe looked easy." The Writer shrugged.

With a heavy sigh, the Artist raised her hands up into a 'surrender' pose. "Look, part of our deal was the rent would be cheap and I will cook. Even Satan's favorite daughter warned me about your cooking skills."

The Writer ignored how her flatmate still calls the Editor as some evil entity. "It came out... good?"

A plate was pushed towards the Writer's side of the coffee table. The plate held a slab of charcoal.

"Steak has four doneness. Rare, medium rare, medium, and well-done." The Artist tapped the charcoal slab and the crispy sound of burnt wood echoed. "This is 'Cooked in Hell Done'."

The Writer rolled her eyes and took the paper that contained her recent story from the Artist. She was able to write such short story while they waited for the Chinese takeout they ordered for dinner. "Fine. It was not a good idea that I cooked. I'll replace the burnt equipment."

"No need. Everything's still working aside from the coffeemaker."

The Writer cringed. Of all the things that would end up in a pile of goo, it was to be the early morning lifegiver.

"I'll buy a new one tomorrow."