Creation

The Invisible Quill

"Can you see it?"

The couch puffs as the girl leans forward, heaving half her weight off the plush. "No, pap. Should I be able to?"

A gentle sigh escapes from the elder man's parted lips, and he shuffles his seating forward to approach his daughter. With the desk separating the two of them bearing the said item. "Not that soon, no. With practice, you will."

But the terror gripping his heart continues to widen itself like a spider's web.

The invisible quill is just the beginning of the trial. Whoever can see the rose-gold feather and its rusty tip shall be considered in the running for War of Words.

It's both a challenge and a chance. Survive and her name shall be glorified, either as a novelist, typewriter, street artist, doodler, and other occupations involving creativity and written words.

He daren't think of the failure's consequences.

"Pap? Will I join the WoW?" There's a quiver on the tip of Ruth's sentence. With tears dotting her eyes, she removes her arms from the desk, now hugging herself into a ball.

Poor girl. She's terrified of his expectations. She fears the word-worshipping world.

What kind of society are they living in now, that they burden a five-year-old to survive in such a trial?

Back in his ages, he still played tag and flew kites with his friends. Not imagining what story he should share with the world. Not making up detailed sentences.

Curse those scientists and child-related institutions for encouraging the entire society to shove their children forward. Only based on their research of a child's golden age.

"Everyone always expects me to do better. Like mom this morning. Or grandma, every single day!"

Those are his fault too. Shall he controlled the mouths of his beloved ones...

"Even though I'm not that strong. Or creative. I'm just a nobody, just a daughter—"

"The invisible quill can only be seen by those with the sharpest creativity. Or by those who utilize theirs well, daily." His lecture successfully cuts her complains short.

Ruth throws her face away. However, her ears must be perking up like a hound, grasping each sentence he utters.

It's only about time. Soon she'll see it, he assures himself.

"The creativity circles around both of our consciousness. Our consciousness will carve memories, moments, and calculated ideas inside your head. Your subconsciousness will be activated once you sleep, in the form of dreams, nightmares—"

"I still won't join, despite you making it sound so easy."

"And random ideas. It also places motivations inside your head. And it's your brain's job to scream it out to you. And your hand to jot it down."

Ruth sits completely silent, muffled by his explanation. Her eyes may have dismissed him completely, but her ears don't. The gears in her brain must be sweating to grasp his sentences.

"Haven't both my consciousness and subconsciousness done enough?"

"You haven't seen or felt the quill yet. Use your creativity more. Wild ideas."

"But pap, can someone blind see the quill? Can someone like me...survive? I heard braille is a cue to bully there."

Ruthford dashes inside his head, begging for a guideline to answer the non-theoretical retort.

"I mean...writing requires the eyes. Not sharp ears like mine. I can't depend on the braille embosser. Shall I receive the eyes from the donor offered last week? I know we've turned it down, but—"

"We won't need that donor."

Ruth's blank and glassy stare returns to him. How pain and confusion mingle beneath those iris pupils like his.

"Then what should I do?"

"You're strong enough. More than creative. Far above intelligent. You're five, but you never mourn over your eyes. You've learned to use your ears instead since one."

The cries piercing from their neighbor's walls interfere with their session. Someone's teaching their child about the basics of the alphabet. Also a list of intricate vocabularies taken from the dictionary, "It's 'enthralling', not 'enthruawling'!"

Ruth cringes, and so does Ruthford.

"You've also mastered the basics since you were two. Written since you were three."

"Are those enough to survive? There are 600 other chosen kids with usable eyes."

"I've never heard of a champion with disabilities. But I believe the invisible quill doesn't discriminate. If you can start feeling its existence—physically, then you're ready."

It's a gamble he's making. There are no such theories of the quill. But if Ruth can prove that theory of his is a truth...

She'll conquer the world and make a breakthrough.

"The invisible quill is your first leaping stone. With it, you're certain to create something out of any words."

"Do you think I can, pap?"

Mistrust tastes bitter in his tongue, along with the lies which begin to boil, clenching his truthful heart. However, also comes determination and encouragement, setting goals inside his head. Resolutions.

He can teach Ruth how to write without her eyes and survive through WoW. He'll be the one who brightens her future, not ruining it.

He'll show the world that Ruth Amaranthine Lucie isn't Ruthford Lucie's descent. That Ruthford Lucie is the pap of the girl who writes blindly, defying all laws that emphasize how physical disabilities are obstacles.

And also the pap of the girl who can see the invisible quill without her eyes, but with her extraordinary creativity and unworldly words.

She'll be an unexpected writer.

"Of course you can. You don't need your eyes to be confident, do you?"

Her nose-length smile replaces the drizzle from her eyes. To Ruthford's relief, she nods. "I guess so?"

"You should prove to the world that you can. Find your creativity, then the invisible quill. Prove that you can survive in WoW. Rise their expectations."

"You will teach me how?"

"Of course. I'll tell you everything you need. Details of the quill, how to discover your creativity deeper, what to write, how to top off your foes—"

"And survive?"

He smiles curtly. "And survive."