WIP: The Story
Nov. 13th, 2003 01:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
out_thereAs I mentioned to Signe, I'm having trust issues with harddrives at the moment, and I'm writing this fic at work, so it's best if I post each tiny little drabble-sized bit of work to LJ. (Plus, it makes me feel more productive. Even though I'm not. At all.)
As any boarding school boy will tell you, those regular packages from home can be the highlight of an entire month. Even when you knew what to expect, more clothes, books, expensive gifts or just mundane letters from home, it was still thrilling to open it.
Weighing the package in his hands, Lionel knew it was from his father. He didn’t need to see the card. His mother always sent warm clothes with even warmer letters; his father always sent books and trinkets from abroad.
Sitting on his bed, Lionel ripped off the brown paper wrapping to reveal a stack of books. They were heavy, hardcover books, bound in dark reds, greens and blues, which told stories of ancient heroes and conquerors. In other words, they were the kind of books Lionel adored.
He flipped open the front cover of the first book and saw the expected envelop lying there. As usual, it was addressed to “Lionel” in the simple handwriting of his father’s secretary. He decided to leave that until later. It would be brief anecdotes from his father’s latest business trip and enquiries about his grades, all in that same perfunctory handwriting.
Lionel chose to believe that his father dictated these letters. After all, his father was a busy man. His time was too important to waste on writing out letters by hand.
Lionel sorted through the books, dividing them into myths and biographies, ancient and modern history. He’d almost reached the bottom of the pile when he saw it; a thin, brightly-coloured paperback. He picked it up and skimmed the back cover. It seemed to be science fiction, possibly post-apocalyptic, and the type of book he wouldn’t bother reading. He wondered why it had been included in the package.
He dropped it on the bed and the front cover fell open, revealing sharp, hurried handwriting with half-crossed t’s. Leaning over the page, he read his father’s handwriting aloud.
“Read this on the plane back. Thought you might enjoy it. Dad.”
Lionel closed the cover and left the book lying on the bed. Maybe he’d try reading it after dinner.
As any boarding school boy will tell you, those regular packages from home can be the highlight of an entire month. Even when you knew what to expect, more clothes, books, expensive gifts or just mundane letters from home, it was still thrilling to open it.
Weighing the package in his hands, Lionel knew it was from his father. He didn’t need to see the card. His mother always sent warm clothes with even warmer letters; his father always sent books and trinkets from abroad.
Sitting on his bed, Lionel ripped off the brown paper wrapping to reveal a stack of books. They were heavy, hardcover books, bound in dark reds, greens and blues, which told stories of ancient heroes and conquerors. In other words, they were the kind of books Lionel adored.
He flipped open the front cover of the first book and saw the expected envelop lying there. As usual, it was addressed to “Lionel” in the simple handwriting of his father’s secretary. He decided to leave that until later. It would be brief anecdotes from his father’s latest business trip and enquiries about his grades, all in that same perfunctory handwriting.
Lionel chose to believe that his father dictated these letters. After all, his father was a busy man. His time was too important to waste on writing out letters by hand.
Lionel sorted through the books, dividing them into myths and biographies, ancient and modern history. He’d almost reached the bottom of the pile when he saw it; a thin, brightly-coloured paperback. He picked it up and skimmed the back cover. It seemed to be science fiction, possibly post-apocalyptic, and the type of book he wouldn’t bother reading. He wondered why it had been included in the package.
He dropped it on the bed and the front cover fell open, revealing sharp, hurried handwriting with half-crossed t’s. Leaning over the page, he read his father’s handwriting aloud.
“Read this on the plane back. Thought you might enjoy it. Dad.”
Lionel closed the cover and left the book lying on the bed. Maybe he’d try reading it after dinner.
