One could not overstate the significance of the foam sword. Perhaps, in the entire history of the room, and the house’s various occupants through the years, the foam sword was the most important thing to ever grace those four walls. For one, it tied the room together nicely; for another, it made several religions with its very presence.
The owners of the house, a Mr. and Mrs. Spelling, were the first to become aware of the foam sword. They found it in the center of the guest room, sitting on the floor, and radiating off immeasurable glory.
Like anyone would, they proceeded to call the police, the local government, the World Government, and the Secret Society of the Past, The Plastic, and The Foam Eyes. The operator on the phone was only so glad to get them in touch with all of them. After all, the foam sword contained within it such beguiling splendor it was a hate crime of the utmost magnitude to not report it to the highest of the high authorities.
They had milk and cookies ready when the first of the agencies’ representatives came to the door to see the foam sword. The agents, even though they had extensive mental training, gawked at the sheer majesty of the foam: the gracious curves of the blue material. One man, though not out loud, renounced his entire previous faith (and marriage) on the spot.
The Spellings ushered them in and allowed them to stand and witness the foam sword. These agents asked a few questions, but mostly just gawked. They did occasionally take a picture—then delete it, as the image was a sin upon man in their attempts to hold the sheer amazement that was the foam sword.
The Spellings accepted it when they asked if they could stay at the house so as not to be too far away from the sword.
As one might expect, over the next few days, the house became oversaturated with people. Every group that came to see, every investigation team, every place and person affiliated with anyone that might have some stake in the foam sword—eventually, sometimes with much polite hemming and hawing—asked if they too could stay.
A day at the Spellings residence, after that first week, consisted of waking up, a very long line to any bathroom, and then sitting around the sword in a series of increasingly loosely defined concentric circles. Sometimes someone would chant. Sometimes they would raise their cereal bowls in thanks for the sword. Remarkably, due to some amazing sewing skills on the part of Mrs. Spelling and one FBI agent who was both frugal and dogged with her needlework, they all had matching pajamas made to be the same color and general look as the sword itself.
From there, each day, after several hours, some would get up and do minor things before growing bored and coming back to behold the sword. Thankfully, the newscasters captured no footage, since if they had, the viewing audience would have made a mass pilgrimage, and they did not have enough milk and toilet paper as the case was already.
No, that came a week later, when one of them, accidentally, took a selfie that contained the tip of the sword and posted it to social media. The image only showed about a quarter of an inch—but that was all it took. Soon, the foam sword brought them in hordes, and in waves, upon the house. A great crowd, greater than any ever perceived, descended. The ground literally shook.
It could not last though. Something so perfect, so beautiful, even if now surrounded by more people than available toilets, by about a million to one ratio, could not stand long in this world. One day, it was like they all woke up from a dream, and found that the foam sword, the beautiful blue foam sword, was no longer there. Chaos reigned for a while, and some deaths and several riots occurred—more than perhaps strictly reasonable, certainly—but most everyone got home in the end.