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Gronk was an ogre, which, as most people know, means he was big, a little bit stinky, and had a tremendous appetite for turnips. But what people didn’t know was that Gronk was also a poet. He wrote beautiful, heartfelt verses about sunsets, the bravery of beetles, and the simple joy of a good mud puddle. This year, he was determined to win the annual village poetry competition.

“The theme is ‘bravery,’ he grumbled to himself, sitting on a stump and sharpening his quill with a chipped stone. “A fine theme. I shall write of the bravery of the humble dandelion.”

He had the perfect poem in his head. The first line was magnificent: “O, brave yellow sun, a hero in the weeds…” He put his quill to the parchment, but nothing came out. The inkwell was dry.

“Blast!” he roared, a puff of steam rising from his nostrils. He found a new inkwell and tried again. He got to the second line: “…with roots that hold the earth in sway,” when the quill itself splintered.

Gronk sighed. This was a classic case of writer’s block, and it was happening at the worst possible time. He tried a new quill, but then a strong gust of wind came and blew his paper away. He chased it down, catching it just before it flew into a creek, but when he got back, his jar of ink had tipped over, leaving a large, splotchy puddle on the ground.

“This is impossible!” he bellowed, throwing his hands up in frustration. He stomped around in a circle, muttering about ink, and quills, and the injustice of it all. He sat down and stared at the empty page, completely defeated.

Just then, a small girl with a mischievous smile, named Lily, walked by. She had been watching him from behind a bush. “You’re a poet, aren’t you?” she asked.

Gronk, a little embarrassed, nodded. “I am. But my pen keeps running out of ink. It’s a very difficult process, this poetry.”

Lily smiled. She reached into her bag and pulled out a fountain pen, filled with shimmering, purple ink. “My grandpa said a writer should always have a backup pen,” she said, holding it out.

Gronk, with a grateful look, took the pen. He dipped it in the ink, and the words flowed from him as if they had been waiting to be set free. He wrote about the bravery of sharing, about the unexpected kindness of strangers, and about how true courage can be found in a simple gift. He won the poetry competition that year, and in his acceptance speech, he thanked the little girl and her little purple pen.