The Quentinville Quills by Sarah Kosel

 

The trouble with college writing groups is that they tend to get off topic. This proved to be the case with the Quentinville Quills, the renowned Quentinville University writing group, which met in a small room in the university’s cavernous library on the third Thursday of every month. It was facilitated by the head librarian, Ellesmera Jane, an eternal optimist who remained upbeat even in the face of the ever more obvious insanity running rampant among the young writers who showed up faithfully, notebooks clutched in their arms and ridiculous personalities clashing as soon as they tumbled through the door.

 

As the motley group found seats on one particular Thursday, chatting, laughing, and occasionally bickering in the process, Ellesmera stood by the doorway, trying to coax passing students into joining the group. After her initial attempts proved unsuccessful, the librarian switched tactics and began ambushing unsuspecting passersby, hauling them in by their ears and smiling sweetly as she tossed them into empty chairs. When everyone was settled and Ellesmera had locked the door in order to keep the most recent captives – that is, members – from escaping, the librarian took her seat at the head of the table and asked if anyone had brought something to read.

 

“Shouldn’t we introduce ourselves first?” queried a tall young woman with canary yellow pigtails and an ink smudge on her cheek. “There are some people here who aren’t our regulars,” she added, eyeing the students who were glancing at the door somewhat desperately. Ellesmera thought this was an excellent idea, and the yellow-haired girl began the round of introductions.

           

“Hello! I’m Rachel, a junior majoring in writing. I’ve been part of the Quentinville Quills since I started here.” The introductions continued with Zelda, Serendipity, and Hazelwood Lee, triplets whose long hair, bright eyeshadow, and patchwork skirts identified them as the resident hippies (all regulars). There was also Sylvester, a young man dressed in an old black suit coat and white dress shirt; Willard, a tall, lanky, and taciturn man who perched in a corner, rarely speaking; Zachariah Zebediah Zeeman III, who had such miniscule handwriting he had to carry around a magnifying glass in order to decipher it; and finally Charlie, who had the appearance of someone who had recently been electrocuted, his hair sticking out in all directions, eyes wide, and sporting a perennially dazed expression.

 

“Delighted to meet you all,” Ellesmera said cheerfully. “It’s nice to have such a large group. This is rather unusual!” The students who had been dragged in against their will exchanged looks of incredulity but remained silent. As Ellesmera waited expectantly, Willard stood up and began, with no prelude, to read in a dolorous baritone:

 

“How my heart walloweth in tremulous depths of woe,

For you dwell with the angels and you shall never bestow your grace to me,

a mere mortal.

Whilst I linger in agony your world turns just the same.

You are a planet, and I your moon,

drawn in by your gravity,

caught in a separate orbit,

never able to cross your path, forever apart.

Lost in the winding torment of my own soul

until you deign to grace me with your smile.”

 

Upon finishing, Willard abruptly sat down and did not utter another word for the rest of the afternoon. Ellesmera nodded politely and commented that it was a lovely piece, which everyone except Willard understood to mean, “I have no idea what any of that gibberish meant, but I commend you for putting pen to paper in an attempt to write.”

 

Deciding that some prose was in order, Serendipity cleared her throat, rustled her papers, and announced that she would read the first part of her fan fiction involving several characters from obscure British dramas. It was elaborate, eloquent, and so convoluted that by the end no one was exactly sure who had been shipped with whom, what canons had been involved, or whether in fact any pirates had made an appearance.

 

Zelda, who was not much for creative writing as she despised the frivolity, false reality, and, in her opinion, idiocy of the style, made it a habit of writing scathing reviews of her sister’s work. She especially despised anything to do with fandoms, and therefore, focused most of her energy on tearing Serendipity’s writing to pieces. Therefore, with the aid of many years of practice to assist her speedy drafting, Zelda had finished a scathing review of Serendipity’s fan fiction by the time the last line had been read. She cheerfully and loudly proclaimed to the group all of her criticisms, and then sat down, satisfied with her contribution.

 

At this point, Charlie, still looking somewhat dazed and confused, stood up with a crackle of electricity and offered to read his most recent story in an attempt to bring the meeting to happier ground. He described in impressive detail the destruction of the world in the near future by an alien race of zombies. Meanwhile, off to the side, Serendipity had accidentally-on-purpose spilled a thermos of boiling tea on Zelda, who was too busy trying to recover from the first-degree burns to pay much attention to Charlie’s delightful tale. Ellesmera, used to this turn of events, calmly handed over the burn cream and bandages she kept in her purse for occasions such as these.

 

Sylvester, having admired Serendipity for the length of the meeting, took this opportunity to lean over and tell her how, although he did not care for writing at all, he absolutely loved working out. He began to regale her with an in-depth explanation of the various exercises he preferred, undeterred by the glazed look on her face. When he mentioned that he was allergic to soy and was therefore unable to drink most of the protein shakes that otherwise might help him build muscle, Serendipity nonchalantly made a note of this fact. Unfortunately, Sylvester had never heard the advice that it is a bad idea to tell a woman what can kill you if you are aggravating her.

 

Hazelwood Lee, ignoring her sisters as she was used to their antagonism, timidly asked if the group would like to hear a few chapters from her novella. The few people who were still paying attention at this point nodded encouragingly, and were rather shocked when the story turned out to be an incredibly sarcastic memoir from the perspective of a serial killer. After Hazelwood Lee finished reading, Ellesmera complimented her on the vivid imaginativeness of piece and asked what her inspiration had been. An uneasy silence fell over the group when Hazelwood blithely replied that she tried to base all of her writing on personal experience.

 

At that point, Ellesmera decided the meeting should be adjourned, and opened the floor up for one last piece to be shared. Rachel, the yellow-haired writing major, volunteered to recite a limerick she had just written. Sitting up straight in her chair, she exclaimed:

 

“There once was a girl named Monday

Who loved a boy named Sunday.

They were set to be married

Until Sunday was buried

Before they could go on their way.”

 

Ellesmera – in fact, all of the regulars – were used to Rachel’s tragic stories, and so she received several compliments as she grinned in appreciation. Zachariah Zebediah Zeeman III pointed out that limericks were, by their very nature, supposed to be upbeat, but he was silenced by a warning look from Ellesmera and – when he ignored that – a swift kick from Willard.

 

Ellesmera graciously thanked everyone for attending, reminded them that the next meeting would be held on the third Thursday of the following month, and unlocked the door so she could send her unruly writers on their merry – or not so merry – way.  Smiling to herself as the students exited the room, some running and some wandering, Ellesmera returned to her normal work day. She had always thought it was nice to have such a lively group of writers on campus, and she was proud to be the facilitator of the Quentinville Quills.