My quill scratches across the dry crisp page. I don’t know how many times I copied this verse from this dusty tome but you know how the saying goes, another day another—
“Scribe!” my square faced foreman shouts. “Your ink pot is dripping. Don’t you dare waste my money!”
“Of course not sir,” I dab the mess away, “if you give me a better pot then this wouldn’t happen.” I mumble. His vulture eyes peer at me from his ledger forcing my eyes back to my work.
My instructors scolded me too, their parting words when I left to enter the work force was “keep your trap shut and do the work…silently.” I’m sure the rest of my class got better quips of wisdom. But then again, even the drunk philosopher on the corner thinks I’m a smart ass.
Where was I? Oh the tome. This outdated piece of dung. I mean it was fine the first time I reproduced it. But it’s been weeks and honestly I think the writer’s drivel is actually taunting me at this point. My foreman, or employer if you want the official term, slides his creaky chair across the planked floor and exits. My quill slips into the ink and my hand pulls it across the bottom of the page. Aimless loops emerge in the corner, a decorative corner piece with vines of ivory and tiny daisies. A smile cracks my dry lips. Now that’s talent. My scribbling started early in my education: boring classes led to my margins filled with dragon butts, bog monsters peeking from edges and the occasional sword (and its variants).
But sometimes my scribbles are more than dragon anatomy. My quill refills its hunger for ink and dashes to the furthest bottom edge. Lines form. Then words. From there sprouts a lovely delicious story; something that feeds my deprived soul.
Forever in the Muses (gracious?) service,
—The Scribbling Scribe