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rainbowfic2012-08-13 11:52 pm
bookblather) wrote in rainbowfic2012-08-13 11:52 pm
Lawn Green 12, Faded Blue 3: End of Line
Author: Kat
Title: End of Line
Story: Shine Like It Does
Colors: Lawn green 12 (the longest day), faded blue 3 (When I want rain, I get sunny weather)
Supplies and Materials: Canvas, miniature collection, watercolors (seven words), modeling clay (destroy), beading wire (this picture), glitter ("Do not handicap your children by making their lives easy." – Robert A. Heinlein), novelty beads ("If I Die Young", The Band Perry).
Word Count: 600
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Tommy is dead.
Warnings: death of a child
Notes: This feels kinda clumsy to me but I'm tired of poking at it. I would appreciate constructive criticism (as always, but especially on this).
He did everything for Tommy. Everything.
And now his son is dead.
It isn't fair. It isn't right. His little boy, his firstborn, his namesake cannot possibly be dead. Any moment Tommy will walk in the door, smirking and swaggering, laughing at what a good joke he's managed to play on all of them. And Thomas will be so glad to see him that he won't even scold him for terrifying them all like that, because he'll be alive, and nothing else matters.
His son is not dead. He can't be dead.
Thomas sits inert and stares at the door.
--
When Tommy was a little boy, he would get into so much trouble. It drove Nancy mad, trying to keep up with him, but Thomas would just laugh and watch his son's antics with a benevolent eye. Ingenious, really, the things Tommy would get up to: dying the swimming pool orange, stealing his mother's best skirts, cutting his brother's hair into an impromptu mohawk. He was a clever boy, that was the trouble, too clever for his own good.
Of course he was. He was Thomas's son. Of course he was that clever. How could he possibly be anything else?
--
School was no better, but the trouble was that Tommy was bored. He was too smart for his classes, Thomas decided. That was why he did things like mouthing off to adults and tying little girls' pigtails to their chairs. If he had proper stimulation he would settle down, be the brilliant little boy that his father knew he was. Not like his brother Christopher, dull and obedient, but a shining star, summer lightning streaking across the sky.
He pulled his oldest out of school in sixth grade and hired a private tutor. Perhaps Tommy could go to Harvard early.
--
The tutor helped, to some extent. Tommy acquired a smattering of knowledge in a smattering of subjects, enduring lessons in the morning in exchange for afternoons to do as he pleased. He'd crunch his way up and down the hills behind their house, come home with globules of sap sticking to his pant legs and a manic grin on his face. He never said just where he went on those long afternoons, but he was an independent boy, so Thomas never asked.
He was such a relief, compared to his brother. Sometimes Thomas could hardly believe the boys were related.
--
Thomas got his oldest a motorcycle for his sixteenth birthday. A car would have been more traditional, of course, but Tommy had asked for the bike, seduced probably by movies and the tattooed men down in the city. Thomas would never allow his son to get a tattoo, but the motorcycle seemed to be all he wanted, and where was the harm in that? He was a smart boy. He'd be fine.
But Tommy always did stymie the experts and defy predictions.
It was a clear and beautiful afternoon when Thomas got the call. He remembers being shocked by that.
--
It isn't until he sees the bike, twisted and wrecked beyond all recognition, that it begins to become real.
Nancy deals with the funeral, with the... the body and all the accoutrements. The domestics tiptoe around him. Christopher all but disappears. And all to the good-- Thomas can't say what he'll do, these days. He can't even say what he'll feel.
His son is dead. His bright and brilliant shooting star, his one great hope for the future, is dead.
He sits in his armchair and stares at the door, and wonders dully if there's any point in anything anymore.
Title: End of Line
Story: Shine Like It Does
Colors: Lawn green 12 (the longest day), faded blue 3 (When I want rain, I get sunny weather)
Supplies and Materials: Canvas, miniature collection, watercolors (seven words), modeling clay (destroy), beading wire (this picture), glitter ("Do not handicap your children by making their lives easy." – Robert A. Heinlein), novelty beads ("If I Die Young", The Band Perry).
Word Count: 600
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Tommy is dead.
Warnings: death of a child
Notes: This feels kinda clumsy to me but I'm tired of poking at it. I would appreciate constructive criticism (as always, but especially on this).
He did everything for Tommy. Everything.
And now his son is dead.
It isn't fair. It isn't right. His little boy, his firstborn, his namesake cannot possibly be dead. Any moment Tommy will walk in the door, smirking and swaggering, laughing at what a good joke he's managed to play on all of them. And Thomas will be so glad to see him that he won't even scold him for terrifying them all like that, because he'll be alive, and nothing else matters.
His son is not dead. He can't be dead.
Thomas sits inert and stares at the door.
--
When Tommy was a little boy, he would get into so much trouble. It drove Nancy mad, trying to keep up with him, but Thomas would just laugh and watch his son's antics with a benevolent eye. Ingenious, really, the things Tommy would get up to: dying the swimming pool orange, stealing his mother's best skirts, cutting his brother's hair into an impromptu mohawk. He was a clever boy, that was the trouble, too clever for his own good.
Of course he was. He was Thomas's son. Of course he was that clever. How could he possibly be anything else?
--
School was no better, but the trouble was that Tommy was bored. He was too smart for his classes, Thomas decided. That was why he did things like mouthing off to adults and tying little girls' pigtails to their chairs. If he had proper stimulation he would settle down, be the brilliant little boy that his father knew he was. Not like his brother Christopher, dull and obedient, but a shining star, summer lightning streaking across the sky.
He pulled his oldest out of school in sixth grade and hired a private tutor. Perhaps Tommy could go to Harvard early.
--
The tutor helped, to some extent. Tommy acquired a smattering of knowledge in a smattering of subjects, enduring lessons in the morning in exchange for afternoons to do as he pleased. He'd crunch his way up and down the hills behind their house, come home with globules of sap sticking to his pant legs and a manic grin on his face. He never said just where he went on those long afternoons, but he was an independent boy, so Thomas never asked.
He was such a relief, compared to his brother. Sometimes Thomas could hardly believe the boys were related.
--
Thomas got his oldest a motorcycle for his sixteenth birthday. A car would have been more traditional, of course, but Tommy had asked for the bike, seduced probably by movies and the tattooed men down in the city. Thomas would never allow his son to get a tattoo, but the motorcycle seemed to be all he wanted, and where was the harm in that? He was a smart boy. He'd be fine.
But Tommy always did stymie the experts and defy predictions.
It was a clear and beautiful afternoon when Thomas got the call. He remembers being shocked by that.
--
It isn't until he sees the bike, twisted and wrecked beyond all recognition, that it begins to become real.
Nancy deals with the funeral, with the... the body and all the accoutrements. The domestics tiptoe around him. Christopher all but disappears. And all to the good-- Thomas can't say what he'll do, these days. He can't even say what he'll feel.
His son is dead. His bright and brilliant shooting star, his one great hope for the future, is dead.
He sits in his armchair and stares at the door, and wonders dully if there's any point in anything anymore.
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Stylistically, this is a gorgeous character piece, and so visceral it hurts. Nicely done.
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And bawwed into my iced tea.
It made me want to hug Tommy SO BAD. It really did.
But I wanted to comment because I think I know what's throwing it off just a smidge. And since I was able to go right back to the two things I remembered...
It's:
It was a clear and beautiful afternoon when Thomas got the call. He remembers being shocked by that.
And
And all to the good-- Thomas can't say what he'll do, these days. He can't even say what he'll feel.
They're not bad, but they have a slightly choppy, disruptive quality compared to the rest.
Still totally bawwed. Oh, Tommy.
(Do you have any more of that Heart Glue?)
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Good job, especially conveying the sort of numb shocked disbelief idk the right word for it.
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Thank you!
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Thank you.
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