Creative essay
The Publisher who Rejected J.K Rowling
The wind blew over the open plain, jostling the few trees to move back and forth with the irritation of it. A young man in a bright green turban approached the army and delivered his tribal-chief’s terms for peace to the commander. With a ferocious look and trembling anger, the commander spoke, and when he spoke even the animals stopped and showed respect.
(Good opening, ‘turban’ and ‘peace terms’ seem to indicate a military, another cultural narrative…)
“We, are warriors! And warriors do not! Stand down!!” shouted the commander. The army rose slowly out of comfort. Every single one had the same look as their commander, the look fear would give you if it were to be of human form.
(Intimidation, fear and courage – always good in a best-selling science fiction… fantasy genre! Must remember to keep up my own courage)
“We will not lower ourselves to your pity standards!” the commander took the terms and tore them over the raging fire which was flickering and arcing like a starving dragon preparing for a feast.

(dragons… here we go… think I might need a coffee for this upcoming boredom)
“Tell your chief that the battle will carry on and Anor Londo will be ours! GO!”
The commander was feared by many, even by those of greater stature than him. Legend has it that there is an individual known as the dragonborn, a warrior with the body of a mortal and soul of a dragon, gifted with the same powers of the Thu’um held by the dragons themselves. Many believed that the commander is the legendary dragonborn. Well his name is – “AHHH!” screamed a fellow comrade as the healer fused his leg together with Mul-Qah-Diiv. Only the medics possessed such magical abilities.
“ah I have a lot of respect for the restoration school. We could use a lot more healers” uttered the commander.
(Well of course… magic, there has to be magic… COFFEE!!!)
The camp was positioned on a hill with garden walls that rose above 15 foot of an old burial ground, adored by springtide blossoms. As the commander toured the grounds, he was reminded of his childhood home. It was a happy and sad recollection, the purity of childhood ambition, all of his schooling in the ways of battle, but tinged with memories of his poor mother. A beautiful woman looking down at her son with both pride and unspoken sorrow. She never talked about what troubled her, but it came to no surprise to any when she took the walk across the moors and was found days later, her throat split open by her own hand. An echo pierced through the air as the commander recollected his thoughts. It was as if it were his mother calling his name Belethor… Belethor… Belethor…
(Mhmm good flash back, I guess)
As Belethor was going back towards his comrades he overheard a wounded comrade talking to a healer, “look at Belethor, not a single hair out of place.”
“the sword is an overvalued artifact” interrupted Belethor, nevertheless pleased with attention. “Warriors pay too much attention to offensive moves and not enough to defensive strategies. The proper way to go into battle is to defend yourself, fight like a mirror, waiting for the ideal opportunity to strike with a deadly blow.”
“I prefer to take a more straight forward approach” said one of the wounded, “It is the way of the horse men”
“In doing so you must remember that the best techniques are passed down by those who survive. I have been in thirty-nine battles and I haven’t a single scar to show for them. That is because I rely on my shield and then my sword, in that order.”
“Well who is the greatest foe you have ever fought?” asked curiously the healer.

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Belethor turned his bright, luminescent shield, the light created his face just like a mirror, “There is he.”
(okay okay, good respective language, effective imagery… I guess this story is going to be about Belethor looking for his perfect match? A mirror?)
The next day the battle recommenced. The swords started clinging, warriors fell left, right and center. From dawn to dusk, blood and guts. The battle raged on. Finally, Belethor met a mercenary on the field, armed with shield and sword and a helm of golden bronze. Their battle continued for two hours.
For the first time in his life, he was battling another defensive warrior. Blow for block, block for blow. As they fought, circling one another, it had dawned on Belethor that here at last he was fighting his perfect mirror. It had become more of a game, almost a dance, than a battle for blood.”
(ahhh typical.. knew it had something to do with a mirror.. minus 50 points for Gryfindor.. ha ha Rowling making millions.. I can’t believe I rejected her…)
“Ahh –” screamed Belethor as he was cut short from the blade slipping passed his shield and his throat. He saw rather than felt, the blade rip across him from neck to chest. The mercenary stood over him as Belethor fell to the ground, feeling honored but thought in silence. Across the battlefield, he heard a name being called, similar to his own.

The mercenary removed his helmet to answer the call. Through the slits of Belethor’s helmet, to his surprise he saw his own reflection in that man. Everything was identical, his own eyes, tan skin, thin and wide mouth and long and brown hair. For that moment he marvelled at the mirror, before the stranger turned back and delivered the death stroke.
(ummm what… okay this is interesting, maybe ill give back the points…)
Mirranthor returned to his commander to celebrate the days victory. He sat near the garden, the same that had been occupied by their foes. He sat in silence, strangely observing the land.

“have thy been here before?” questioned his commander.

“reminds me of the stories I had been told. I was sold as a baby by my mother. If had not my mother sold me so savagely, I wonder how my life had might been different.”
“many things decide our fate” said the commander. “It is madness to even wonder that if you had taken such turns what might had happened. There is none that are exactly like you, so it is foolish to compare.”
“but one there is” said Mirranthor. “before my master had set me free, he told me I was one of two, twins. My mother could not afford to raise two so I was sold. But out there somewhere, there is a man just like me. My brother. I hope to meet him one day.”
The commander rose his head, looking to the stars, knowing the truth that the twins had already met. He turned to the fire beside him in an attempt to remain silent, banishing the thoughts from his consciousness, too wise to tell at all.

(who am I to decide? Well, better okay it. I am known now as the publisher who rejected Harry Potter – said the world was done with stories involving witchcraft and magicians. Talk about learning a lesson! Publish this one, get the writer on contract. Make millions! Sounds good to me – NOW!)


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