Charles Overture had worked for the king for 30 long years, and he was sick of it. Every week, King Herbert demanded a new poem for his council meetings. At first, it had been an engaging challenge: how best to write a new poem every week while keeping them all fresh, interesting, and original? Over the years, however, it had become a tiresome job. He had slowly exhausted his inspirations for his poems, and the king refused to let him take a break, even for the sake of creating better poetry.

Now, it had come to this. Charles was simply out of ideas for what to do for the king’s poem. He wracked his brains, but nothing new popped out to him. Perhaps he could write of his king’s mighty accomplishments? No, he’d already done that. Could he write a retelling of the great legends? No, Charles had fitted as many reimaginings and retellings and even mockings of them that to do another would be repetitive.

It didn’t help that in the back of his mind, he kept imagining how this would help him write his epic fantasy novel. Fantasy was the one subject that he didn’t dare to touch, for he was afraid that if he wrote any fantasy, his epic – his secret dream – would seem foolish and silly.

His hand scribbled across a piece of parchment as he thought. When he looked downwards, he saw words, not for any poem, but words intended for his book.

The knight yelled and surged forwards in a final attempt. He was bleeding profusely on one side, and heavily bruised on the other, but he could not let this dragon win.

Somebody knocked on the front door. Charles hastily shoved the parchment into a hiding spot and opened the door. Luckily, it wasn’t the king, only his good friend and fellow writer Mortimus.

Charles opened the door wider and said, “Come in, come in. Let me make you some tea.”

Mortimus chuckled. “I’m surprised that you even have time for tea. How many poems has the king ordered you to write for his party?”

Charles laughed and walked back into his house. The single table was littered with parchment and ink spots, so he quickly cleared out enough empty space to fit in two teacups and a pot of tea.

They talked about small things and made jokes until Mortimus asked, “How’s your book going?”

Charles sighed. “I don’t have any time for it. The problem is, I have to spend so much time writing poems for the king.”

Mortimus said, “You should quit your job.” When Charles looked at him uncomprehendingly, Mortimus sighed. “Come on, it’s about time that you retired anyways.”

Charles shook his head. “I can’t. The king probably won’t let me.”

For a moment, they both stayed silent and sipped their tea awkwardly.

Then, Mortimus began to talk about his new apprentice, Abby. Charles just listened as Mortimus chatted about how wonderful Abby’s writing was, glad to have something else to talk about.

After Mortimus left, Charles went back to work. He puzzled over how he could possibly finish a poem for the king, but no new ideas came to him. He felt as if the answer was just inside his reach, but he couldn’t think of it, whatever it was.

Somebody knocked on the door. Charles went to open it, thinking it was Mortimus again, but it was King Herbert. Charles stood awkwardly in the doorway, not sure what to do. Had he made a grammar mistake in the last poem? Had there been an off-kilter rhyme?

King Herbert asked, “How is your poem going? Can I have a look at it first?” He rubbed his hands together eagerly.

Charles hurriedly stammered out, “Uh, surely, you don’t want to spoil the surprise. I mean, what would the point of having a new poem for the party if it isn’t new?”

King Herbert nodded. “That makes sense. Perhaps I should go, then.” He turned to leave.

Suddenly, Charles thought, its now or never. He screwed up his courage, took a deep breath, and asked, “Sir? Can I take a break?”

The king turned around, looking baffled. “Break? What do you mean by ‘break?’ Is this a new style of poetry?”

Charles said, “No, sir, I want to take a vacation for further inspiration.”

The king clapped Charles on the back heartily and laughed. “That’s the best joke I’ve heard in a while! You don’t need more inspiration when you have so much natural talent.”

Charles stood uncomfortably. The king hadn’t understood his request at all, and now he had probably just made the king look even more forwards to his nonexistent poem. Maybe Mortimus was right, and he should just quit.

“Sir,” he said, “I’d like to leave my job.” He waited apprehensively for the king’s response.

King Herbert only laughed even harder. “And now the punchline! Charles, you’re the best poet I’ve ever seen. Not only can you write, but you can make jokes too.” He walked out the door, still guffawing in laughter.

The day before the party, Charles still hadn’t written a single thing. He doodled idly on his parchment, trying to think of a way to create a poem. He sighed. Being the king’s poet just wasn’t enjoyable for him anymore. All he wanted to do now was to write his book and quit his job.

Suddenly, he got an idea. It was risky, but hopefully it would be worth the risks. For the sake of his sanity and his book, he hoped so. It would all pay off in the end. For the first time in a long while, Charles grinned and happily started writing.

The party was late at night, and Charles waited apprehensively. King Herbert was a known poem enthusiast, and not very forgiving of bad poems. However, the king seemed in a good mood tonight, and was jovial and good-natured. He probably was expecting a masterpiece tonight. Charles wondered how long that good mood would last.

Nobles of various ages and ranks sat together at long tables, feasting together merrily. Charles sat at the head of one of them, next to the king. Despite the banquet, he barely touched his food. The roasted pheasant seemed to stare at him accusingly, and someone seemed to have scooped out a face of disapproval in the mashed potatoes. It was too late to abandon his plan, but he wondered if it was the right thing to do now.

King Herbert talked animatedly with the other nobles, chatting about which famous poems were true sonnets and how to tell the difference. Like Charles, he hadn’t eaten much, but it was out of enthusiasm, not nervousness.

The minutes seemed to drag by as Charles waited. He glanced at the stage. It had a raised platform for him to stand on, and the walls curved around it so that his voice would be amplified when he spoke. It seemed empty and forlorn.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of feasting, King Herbert said, “Now it’s time for Charles to give us all a poem!”

Charles thought, if he was to do this, he needed to get a grip on himself now. He took a deep breath and stood up from the table, taking his poem with him. Then he walked to the stage as calmly as he could, stood up and cleared his throat. He looked down at his poem and began to read.

“Once there was a frog

who lived in a lovely bog

He ate mud but had no courage

to face the flies

so he ate porridge and swam in mud

His nature was a dud

Suddenly he met a dragon who

wanted

to eat him and

let the others on him band

Then he escaped through the jungle and ate fish and swam and breathed and ran from the dragon

He had all his bagging but was

quite misshapen

so he ran away to the oranges

The frog ate some boranges

and flew away happily ever after”

The people surrounding him hadn’t even bothered to stop talking and listen. Charles waited anxiously for the king, whose face was rapidly turning red, to respond. When the king’s jaw silently dropped, he asked, “Sir, would you like to hear the second verse?”

This seemed to snap the king out of his dazed state. King Herbert stood up and shouted, “What type of a -- a thing -- was that? It had no rhyme, no flow, and no plot to it at all!”

The people around the king finally stopped talking. As King Herbert ranted on, Charles resisted the urge to hide. It wouldn’t help him now.

“Poem?” King Herbert continued bellowing, “How dare you call that a poem! How dare you call yourself a poet! Get out of here. If I ever see you again I’ll put you in jail.”

Two burly guards escorted Charles out of the palace, and he pretended to struggle out of their grip. They manhandled him roughly and threw him out of a window.

Charles thumped onto the hard ground outside. He gingerly sat up, inspecting himself for injuries. When he saw none, he finally allowed himself to smile. He was forever free of being the king’s poet. It was now time to write his book.

Two months later, Charles was doing well. He had written most of part 1 of his fantasy epic, and was just starting to edit it when somebody knocked on the door. He got up and opened it.

It was Mortimus. Charles welcomed him in for a cup of tea, and they sat together for a few moments, just sipping their tea.

Then Mortimus said, “I just got the news. Abby, my apprentice, is the new king’s poet.”