An ill-conceived fictive concoction drafted in a fit of boredom this day.
Fontanella Rominski sweeps cobblestone in the winter of 1797 on the Ferrighianarian Way south of Setteltoon on the shores of the Garopian Sea. A mean wench, this Fontanella. Wields that broom with violent fury against drooping old men and toddling children and puppy dogs who cross her sweeping path on the Ferrighianarian Way as she plies the bristles back and forth, back and forth, broom strokes for public works to clean the Ferrighianarian Way for a few pennies a day
to buy her daily fare: two slices of bread, an eighth cup of sugar, a shriveled prune, a dollop of lard. Supper fit for meanness, fit for a broom-wielding assaultress of the harmless and helpless: droopy old men and toddlers and puppy dogs.
What made her thus a wench?
Read on to learn the wretched, wicked tale.
T ’was Simonesorio Polderustus who violated her! The scoundrel jilted her in May of 1747, left her standing at St. Aliban’s altar before the priest and God and everyone except her once-betrothed Simonisorio Polderustus who chose that day a’ fishing instead of a’wedding.
Condemned thus a spinster and a poverty-bound sweeper of public walks, she lives out her days, each day as the day before, plying her broom back and forth, back and forth, bristling strokes of bitterness, vengefully lashing out at droopy old men whom she all suspects as jilters of May brides, at toddling children who torture the dreams of a family she once longed for, and at loving puppies whose existence she rues because the pups might have played with the children she never had, had she had those children.
Alas, Fontanella Rominski, forlorn and forgotten: God pity her soul, for the miscreant Simonisorio Polderustus snatched the heart right out of her bosom.