P Is For Poetess


Her smooth hands wrung together as she stood watching the rain patter against the window. Such a gentle spirit, the poetess was, with her love of all things melancholic and strange. She did not seem to belong in our world of warriors, thieves, and tyrants.

“Please don’t marry that man,” I said.

She sighed softly. “You tell me this as though I have a choice in the matter.”

“You do. Please, sail with me!”

Her startled expression made me smile.

“I cannot.”

“Yes, you can. I pilot my own ship. I can allow anyone that I please to be aboard.”

“What about when we return?”

“We do not need to return.”

“Is it not life threatening?”

“You fear the unknown nature of the sea more than that disgusting axe slasher? Surely not.”

“I am not afraid.”

She closed the distance between us by walking over to me.

“I will protect you with my life,” I said.

She threw her hands in the air. How I loved her dramatic expressions after those prolonged periods of calmness. The poetess’s hands rested on her hips.

“Very well. I will go with you.”

I took her hands in mine. “This makes me very happy. Now, gather your paper and quill and all of the ink you will need for a half year’s journey around the world.”

Her laughter filled the air like a soft poem. Just the thought of seeing all of the continents and vast oceans with her close by made me the happiest woman alive.

-Sara Kjeldsen


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