(Art by: Jason Engle. I have no rights to this picture.)
Blood trickled from the lips of a grief stricken writer as he threw the quill that he had been chewing upon. A raven feather with a brass point, no ink upon the tip. Ink had not been fed to this hungry pen for months now. The writer who wielded it seemed to not feel like wasting ink upon a pen in which he would not be able to write with.
“Blasted quill!” he shouted, grabbing his lip in pain. Sighing as he looked upon the pen laying on the desk, satisfied that it had finally gotten a drink of something, he picked it back up. “I am sorry my friend, I should not have been tapping you against my lips.”
He felt as if the feather agreed with his apology. The silver streams of the moon pierced through the glassed holes in the wall the inn he stayed at called windows. Most had cracks and breaks in them, and those that didn’t were covered in dust so thick it seemed to be armor against the arrows the moon shot around the world.
These arrows would be further blocked by the drifting of the writer’s eyelids, heavy from the sleep he had not been getting. Setting the pen down on the desk, of which he had salvaged from a nearby dead carpenter’s house, he got up from his chair, stolen from the same house, and moved to his bed, of which did not come from the house.
Sleep was inevitable at this point. He had fallen into its trap, laying onto the bed which would then become his thoughtless grave, leaving him in a state of emptiness until he was jumped into the next disappointing day. He fell asleep there on the bed, in an inn within a city which held nothing for him. He thought he would repeat the nightly cycle that bothered him. Sleeping without dreams, and waking without purpose.
Little did this forsaken writer know, that he would dream that night, and would wake to find his life had begun and this life he dreaded had died, just as the carpenter that he stole the desk and chair from.
This is a short part of a story I wrote to try and break this dry spell of writing.