Pre-Write+4

Prewrite 4 An Obsidian stone with eyes darker than it’s skin awakes to an unpleasant surprise. A golfer has mishit a shot and is now standing upon his brother. “Get off!” he shouts with a stare. The golfer remains unaware. A stone such as I should receive respect thought the stone. I am wise with time, weathered until even I, Obsidian, am as smooth as the winter is cold. “I deserve more, for I have worked longer!” he yelled once more with his pitch black eyes. Unbeknownst to Obsidian, his last comment was received, and understood by the golfer. Only now did the golfer see what he had been missing due to his intense level of concentration. Upon a once flowing riverbed, lay a perfectly round black glass stone, in a field of razed rocks. He picked it up with a touch so tender it couldn’t have woken a newborn. The stone wept with joy, for he had been compensated for a life of devotion, a life of putting up with the perennial rains, and the abrasive relations between him and his fellows. Perhaps that is why the golfer kept this stone, warming it with the touch of his hands in his pockets always. The stone had accomplished what he couldn’t fathom. Recognition, peace; the desire of all golfers. Yet, the gentle-man was despaired. In a game where wealth and raw talent determines status, how can one be assessed as a pro based on determination and time? So he carried the happy stone to his grave, a beacon for what could have been, and a reminder of a question he wished he could answer.

(I had trouble with this one, and linking it back to my story, but i hope it is still acceptable)