Penelope sat in her study. Once her husbands den, she had claimed it from underfoot when he had the audacity to die on her before their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Surrounded by her beloved books and her feathered quill waiting to be usurped from the well, she was of a mind to write.
She was the author of several books, putting her on par with Browning, and the Bronte sisters, and Alcott. And her style was rather random. She could perfectly mimic Samuel Clemens (which she preferred to Mark Twain), and she loved to emulate Whitman. But she grew impatient. Penelope dreaded to be kept waiting.
Her pampered Persian cat began to stir. Chantel rarely fussed. It was finally time. Penelope closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. When she opened her eyes, they remained rolled back into her head with only the whites visible.
With implement in hand, Penelope started to scratch the nib across the parchment rapidly. Pages flipped and fell; she blotted as quickly as she wrote. Page became chapter; chapter turned to volume, and thus she created.
With the last word written, Penelope slumped face down on her writing desk, smudging India Ink on her right temple. Her eyes returned to normalcy. Her session was over.
Penelope raised into a more formal sitting position, brushing a tendril of brown hair behind her ear. And she spoke to no one in particular.
“Thank you, Mr. Wordsworth! That was a remarkable exchange!” she smiled very much pleased with herself.
“And William? Let us be prompt next time I summon. I hate to be kept waiting” she resounded a final parting shot.