The post is written in response to a prompt from Genre Scribes: Friday Fiction Writing Challenge #26 — Literature.
“Please, just give it a quick read.”
“Look, I’ve told you before it’s not going to happen, how many times do we have to tell you?”
“Because the sign on the door says ‘Purveyors of fine literature’, and what is this if not that?!”
“You think this is fine literature? This? Ha! This is nothing but a collection of words!” he stifles a laugh before throwing my bundled parchment down dismissively.
I pictured my beloved Anne sitting at home, the two brutes there with her, the ones that had shaken me awake a few weeks ago.
“You don’t understand, please please read it.”
“I’ve read things from you before, why would I think this will be any better? You are a hack, I’ve seen better writing in a shopping list, seriously, Bill, give it up and go home”.
I look at the bound parchment lying on the desk in front of him, how can he mock my words so openly, so carelessly. If only he knew what was at stake. Yet I know he only cares about money, of which I have none.
For me this piece is everything; it’s my precious Anne with tears streaming down her face, as the ropes bind her tight to her chair, with the large silent man standing behind her, his blade bright in candlelight. It is my best work.
“Please, just read it, it won’t take you long. Please. I’m begging you.”
He glances down at the stack of bound papers.
“What kind of title is ‘The Two Gentlemen of Verona’ anyway?”