The bard unsheathed his lute, checked its tuning and, once satisfied with the pitch of each string, took out a piece of charcoal and a scrap of parchment from his satchel.

A moment to himself, rudimentary writing utensils, and his stringed partner in crime. All the pieces were in place for him to create his next masterpiece.

Impeccable suits and swishing dresses. Elegant curtsies and lips on gloves. Adult chatter and adult laughter. So refined, but so not fun.

Boredom took hold of me quickly. I had no one my age to play with, and the grown-ups didn’t seem to care much about my presence. Mother was too busy entertaining her guests to give me even a second of her attention. I could leave, and none would be the wiser…

“A raise?” one of the councilmen slammed his hands on the table. “People out there are dying, and you come here asking for a raise?”

“Precisely because they are dying is why I demand a raise,” the doctor said.

He lowered the brim of his hat, shutting out as much external stimuli as possible.

Why did he do this to himself? Booze was illegal anyway; why go through all the trouble, if it meant suffering this much the morning after?

A smirk crept onto his face. He knew why. Last night’s speakeasy had all the answers.

Robert the luthier runs a small shop in an alley off to the side of the main road. There isn't as much hustle and bustle over there and he doesn’t get a steady flow of new customers, but the old ones are very loyal and manage to keep him afloat.

The pen is mightier than the sword, they’re starting to say.

Is it, really?

The former can destroy lives, sure. But the latter ends them forcibly. Only those who have experienced both can say which is worse.