A Feather for Vellum
Filed at the Chicago Mint of Wordsmithing & Artistry
In the beginning, the author spoke in prose
clear, structured, dignified.
Vellum, ever patient, received each word without complaint.
But over time, she began to murmur.
“You bring me bricks,” she whispered,
“but I long for feathers.”
The author tried.
Bent prose into arcs.
Clipped phrases into stanzas.
Made a period land like the final beat of a drum.
Still, the words came out square.
One day, vellum sighed:
“If you cannot give me poetry,
then give me something that believes it almost is.”
The author, tired, and slightly amused, nodded.
He began to write sideways.
Left metaphors unfinished, like bridges broken mid-span.
Replaced rhyme with rhythm, and rhythm with restraint.
He gave up on music but not on meaning.
In the end, vellum curled softly at the edges and said:
“That’ll do.”
Then she paused and whispered, almost tenderly:
“Next time… feathers, please.”