long, cool, strokes of a feather ink pen
its ink covered tip hits the starch paper allowing only a lulling noise to escape
If you look into the writers goose berry colored eyes you can almost see the story play out in his head
the smell of fresh black ink wafts through the airhis eyes water at the strong smell
Now the sunlight streams through a small crack in the curtained window atop an old shelf
Its golden light dances around the room playfully, as if calling the writers name
But he cant stop now
He only pauses for a second or two for a small sip of ice cold spring water
He will continue this pattern for another year or two
the writer chooses his words carefully
Its almost as if hes writing out someones fate
After months of this laborious patter his skin has grown pale and his hands have grown strong
Finally after 3 years he is done....
No,more long cold nights at the desk
No,more red hurting hands
And, no more gruelingly painful head aches
He is drained, skinny, and almost lifeless
but his book is done
And this is why he is lifeless, drained,and skinny
But to him its all worth it....
Why?
Because he is now an
Author
