Dear Rappie, a Sci-fi fic for your birthday has begun.
Untitled at the moment, but it could change any moment now. I've been starting a lot of new stories lately and I'm getting good at it. It's so nice and I decided I was ready to get to the real work: Science Fiction.
Tonight, I wrote this. I hope it pleases. This is a little confusing in that it's not specified what they are talking about, but it's a prologue. This is to establish a certain plotline and maybe the tone of the story. I hope I succeeded as this one is a passion of mine.
Without further adieu, I present "Untitled Original Story, or, Rap's Birthday Sci-fi fic!"
Prologue: The Quiet Matter Of Perspective.
"There's not much in the way of true disability. Thirty years ago, he would have been considered a perfectly healthy, normal boy. It's simply an allergy, albeit, a rare and particularly cruel one."
Mother frowned at the doctor's words. She did that often at these appointments. There was nothing new from the last three times we had come to this particular clinic. What was she expecting to have miraculously happened in the past six months?
At twelve, I've learned when not to ask that question aloud. Ignorant questions wasted time, they were a distraction for the foolish mind. I am many things, but that's not one. Mother was very proud of my limited abilities.
Where she sat might as well have been a throne. Head held high, mother was at perfect attention. Her back straight, shoulders up, hands clasped with fingers laced at ease over her bag, there was not a stitch out of place. My father described this as regal in conversation.
In comparison, behind his desk, Doctor Ruhmol almost slouched back in his patched leather chair. His fingers held my file in a loose, almost careless, grip for something so important and heavy. The fact that they still used paper here was surprising. He snorted and closed the folder. "I'm sorry."
If possible, mother straightened even further. Chin raising imperceptibly, she blinked slowly in his direction. "He will have to learn with it." She did not turn to look at me.
Though, I knew she was watching out of ther corner of her eye, so, I kept still. It wasn't getting any easier. The longer they took to repeat the same conversation, the more concentration it took not to fidget. I was not a little boy, but years of learned behavior didn't disappear overnight.
I must have succeeded, as Mother's lips eased from their strained smile.
Doctor Ruhmol finally looked up from his hands with a false grin. The pinch around the eyes and twitching of his lips was hardly worth the effort. "Don't feel bad, fella." And here came the patent lies to make the patient at ease with the grim news. "Once, it was very common, almost a full third of the population. We have made great strides. Now, less than two percent remain affected. Your boy simply happened to draw the unlucky 'recessive gene' numbers."
"I know." Her right index finger began to tap.
This sent a shiver through me.
The longer he spoke, the less she would. On the way home, she would be fussier than usual about every single thing I did wrong. Her tapping matched the click of the antiquated clock above Doctor Ruhmol's office door.
In that moment, everything went still. I realized Mother wasn't taking this as an insult or belittling. Glancing her way, I saw just how small she was. We were the same height now, not that'd you know from her sheer presence.
This was personal to her. What he had said wasn't an embarassment to her. Mother blamed herself for the accident of genetics.
My eyes started to sting and I had to look away. I wanted to apologize, yet, could think of nothing to say.
The doctor wasn't through though. He leaned forward to rest the file on his desk and lace his fingers together atop it. "There is still hope. A new vaccine looks very promising, but early indicators show a quick immuno response prevents gene therapy from being truly viable, yet. They're still working on it, though. In the mean time, he will have to continue doing things the old fashioned way."
Old fashioned? Like using paper and wall clocks, is that what he meant?
Ridiculous.
Tonight, I wrote this. I hope it pleases. This is a little confusing in that it's not specified what they are talking about, but it's a prologue. This is to establish a certain plotline and maybe the tone of the story. I hope I succeeded as this one is a passion of mine.
Without further adieu, I present "Untitled Original Story, or, Rap's Birthday Sci-fi fic!"
Prologue: The Quiet Matter Of Perspective.
"There's not much in the way of true disability. Thirty years ago, he would have been considered a perfectly healthy, normal boy. It's simply an allergy, albeit, a rare and particularly cruel one."
Mother frowned at the doctor's words. She did that often at these appointments. There was nothing new from the last three times we had come to this particular clinic. What was she expecting to have miraculously happened in the past six months?
At twelve, I've learned when not to ask that question aloud. Ignorant questions wasted time, they were a distraction for the foolish mind. I am many things, but that's not one. Mother was very proud of my limited abilities.
Where she sat might as well have been a throne. Head held high, mother was at perfect attention. Her back straight, shoulders up, hands clasped with fingers laced at ease over her bag, there was not a stitch out of place. My father described this as regal in conversation.
In comparison, behind his desk, Doctor Ruhmol almost slouched back in his patched leather chair. His fingers held my file in a loose, almost careless, grip for something so important and heavy. The fact that they still used paper here was surprising. He snorted and closed the folder. "I'm sorry."
If possible, mother straightened even further. Chin raising imperceptibly, she blinked slowly in his direction. "He will have to learn with it." She did not turn to look at me.
Though, I knew she was watching out of ther corner of her eye, so, I kept still. It wasn't getting any easier. The longer they took to repeat the same conversation, the more concentration it took not to fidget. I was not a little boy, but years of learned behavior didn't disappear overnight.
I must have succeeded, as Mother's lips eased from their strained smile.
Doctor Ruhmol finally looked up from his hands with a false grin. The pinch around the eyes and twitching of his lips was hardly worth the effort. "Don't feel bad, fella." And here came the patent lies to make the patient at ease with the grim news. "Once, it was very common, almost a full third of the population. We have made great strides. Now, less than two percent remain affected. Your boy simply happened to draw the unlucky 'recessive gene' numbers."
"I know." Her right index finger began to tap.
This sent a shiver through me.
The longer he spoke, the less she would. On the way home, she would be fussier than usual about every single thing I did wrong. Her tapping matched the click of the antiquated clock above Doctor Ruhmol's office door.
In that moment, everything went still. I realized Mother wasn't taking this as an insult or belittling. Glancing her way, I saw just how small she was. We were the same height now, not that'd you know from her sheer presence.
This was personal to her. What he had said wasn't an embarassment to her. Mother blamed herself for the accident of genetics.
My eyes started to sting and I had to look away. I wanted to apologize, yet, could think of nothing to say.
The doctor wasn't through though. He leaned forward to rest the file on his desk and lace his fingers together atop it. "There is still hope. A new vaccine looks very promising, but early indicators show a quick immuno response prevents gene therapy from being truly viable, yet. They're still working on it, though. In the mean time, he will have to continue doing things the old fashioned way."
Old fashioned? Like using paper and wall clocks, is that what he meant?
Ridiculous.