Chapter 2-3
122 Words
Jefferson knew he couldn’t sleep. He knew it would be pointless to try. He settled at his writing desk and gazed out the window, staring into the inky blackness. He hadn’t touched his quill in weeks as he mused over the lines that refused to unknot themselves. He hadn’t written anything worthwhile in months. Lately, the steady scratching of quill across rough paper wore on his nerves. But now, he picked it up without hesitation. And he wrote.
He scribbled.
He slashed.
He cursed.
He thrummed.
He sought the corners of his mind for the perfect word, and sought the edges of his memory for the perfect image.
Jefferson was still writing when the peeking sun cast long, bony shadows over his face and hands.
- Writer
