Dusk was a magical time in the forest. One half of the dwellers, weary from a day filled with frolicking, hunting and grazing. The other half; bleary-eyed, drunken fools stumbling clumsily into wakefulness.
The tiny scribes were readying their quills and straightening their scrolls of papery birchbark. The latest delivery had arrived and they excitedly counted the little slips of pretend papyrus, stacking them neatly into perpendicular piles of ten.
The apprentice scribes marched enthusiastically on the berries beneath their feet; a miniature vineyard. The deep blue juice that was produced was not for drinking, it was for writing with.
©CMA 2018
The Angry Farmer 