The Marvelous Pleasantry
It was a bitter frigid wind that forced itself through the cracks in the room's window. Dante shivered, and wrapped his fraying jacket around his thin shoulders tighter. It seemed unfathomable that nearly three weeks ago it was still pleasant weather, and now snow crusted the dirty streets, and froze each occupant who was not able to afford coal. He rubbed his hands together, trying to tease some warmth into them so that he would be able to continue his scrolling. A writer was not a fulfilling occupation unless one was able to create a tale worthy for the public. Of yet Dante had scratched out a few decent essays, and a short poem that had been featured in The Ink's Child, a small newspaper read by a couple other starving writers like himself.
With every fiber in him, he longed that a groundbreaking idea would reach his mind, but instead inspiration taunted him like a small schoolboy. He dipped his quill angrily into the pot, only to discover that the ink had frozen over. Enraged he pushed his parchments and writing utensils aside, and groaned inwardly in frustration. "Damn words," Dante muttered irately. "Damn all of these insufferable words!" his voice rose to a roar, as he pushed the table before him until it stumbled on it's weak legs, and fell to it's side. "If I could only undo this passion within me!" He clawed at his chest furiously, as if he only possessed a blade he could slice the desire to write from him.
His face dark with unpleasantness, he pushed the table aside, and started for his chamber door. He was desperate to go out into society; perhaps today he would witness an act that would spark the idea he required for a work that would sell.
To be continued…
