A sharpened quill graced the gentle hand of the writer sitting at her desk, the white plumage fluttering around as ink ran across the page. She went to dip it in the ink well that sat upon the corner of her desk, the slanted surface aiding small droplets of dark liquid as they crawled down the side. The parchment crinkled under the shifting pressure of her hand- a hand which soon froze in place.
The door behind her opened, and she trembled as she stuffed her work somewhere inconspicuous, pulling out another paper and quickly scribbling out practiced sentences. The deep voice of her father rumbled behind her, her arms tense as the tip of the feather traced the rehearsed nothings across the fresh sheet.
"What are you doing?" He grumbled, eyes scanning over the workspace. "You were supposed to meet with you tutor an hour ago."
The girl's mouth opened, but a rush of gruff speech was there to interrupt.
"Don't hit me with the same excuse as last time. You did not lose track of the hour- there is a clock right behind you. Tell me what you do in your study for hours at a time. Clearly this is not it."
His hand swept up the parchment paper, looking the sentence worth that she had managed write. It was a snippet from a lesson days prior.
"I can assure you, father," she spoke quietly, doing all she could to suppress the fear and hatred in her voice, "I've been doing my all to better myself."
Her free hand brushed up against the love letter resting underneath a stack of schoolwork, pushing it further out of sight.
YOU ARE READING
Melting Pot
Short StoryA series of poems and short stories from my creative writing course. I figure this way they'd get some attention other than a grade.
