Mightier Than The Sword

My grandfather wasn't an affluent man, not one of those "rich uncles" you might inherit a mansion or a million dollars from. He was a writer. My mother once said he loved books more than people. But when he left me his prized golden quill, I felt a sense of pride. With it came a note--"use it wisely."

I inherited something of his love for stories, and I decided that if I was going to start writing in earnest, I would be using his quill pen for my first manuscript.

As I worked long into the wee hours of the night, I felt as if I was drifting through the cosmos--nothing existed but me, my pen, and the notebook I was writing on.

'...little did the farm boy know that he had taken shelter in a dragon's den. As he felt his way along the huge tunnel, his foot slipped, and he just barely caught himself from falling flat on his face. He cursed under his breath, but to his surprise as his hands felt the floor, he found that they were covered in gold coins.'

'He brought one up to his face, inspecting it, and deep within the cave the dragon stirred. He knew every coin in his hoard, and so greedy and jealous was the beast that he would go to the ends of the earth to retrieve a single one.'