My fanfiction and other random ramblings

my thoughts on how to write (or not)

Splinters 5 – Make a man out of you

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August – he kept reminding himself to use that name even in his thoughts – was moderately happy.
He had been taught to read and write. He was introduced to the wonders of mathematics, biology, history and computers. At ten, he wasn’t much behind his peers, even though he started from what the teachers called “tabula rasa”, his skills limited to general survival and woodworking. The second one won him accolades at all workshops the boys were assigned to at school, as he could fashion a birdhouse, a cutting board, a key hanger and all manner of other small wooden objects that were graded for these classes. He was taught the usage of power tools, which still amazed him – he could only imagine what his Papa could have done with a mini-drill and some of these attachments that the teachers were using so easily and taking for granted.
He was a bit afraid of the computers. Machines that made a drill go fast were good. They did something he knew, but did it better than hand-drill. Machines that spoke, made lights, sung and heard you were plain weird.
He learned the mastery of text editor and calculating with a spreadsheet. He could even draw a picture which would later be put on paper by another machine, equally magical in his eyes.
Still, he preferred more traditional ways of recording his thoughts. Ballpoint pens were good enough for him, thank you very much. Ink pen was more of a challenge, as his poor fine motor skills affected his ability to handle it properly. He tried and tried, but his notes came all splotched with ink and finally the teachers gave up – no type of therapy seemed to help, so they chalked it up to some developmental problem and allowed him to use the ballpoint pen from now on. He chalked it up to him being fashioned out of wood and not being expected to learn to write at any point of his life.
One sunny day, four years after he came to the group home, all older boys were taken to the attic and given a task of dragging the boxes downstairs, where girls were unpacking them and segregating things to be kept, used or discarded. There August met his first true love. She had a number of black keys and was even properly packed in a cardboard box, with all required accessories in the pocket.
As he tried it out, the letters came up, a little dust cloud accompanying them.
At the end of the afternoon he was promised that the typewriter would be his, whenever he managed to make a new box for it and had place in his room.
It was one of the few things he packed into his case when the fall came and he got ill yet again. The doctors declared he had to be moved into the countryside for his health.
He had barely time to say goodbye to his beautiful princesses when the man from the new house came and packed all his things into a big car. He kept staring through the window, his eyes tearing up at the thought of leaving his little charges all alone.
I’m sorry, Papa. I can’t do this alone. But they are together. I brought them all here. I hope this counts.

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Written by Srebrna

2016/10/02 at 23:16

Posted in Splinters

Tagged with ,

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