Age Switch
It was a peculiar place, this Tabula Rasa.
Mother had always stressed a thorough education, including all the classics, all of which they'd read together, in the parlor, in the dim light of the fire and gas-fueled table lamps. He had a rudimentary knowledge of Greek and Latin, as every proper, well-bred young man should, and he found it charming that they'd given the island -- a place the likes of which he'd never seen -- such a clever name.
He missed Mother terribly, however, but he took comfort in the knowledge that, according to the lovely island natives he'd been fortunate enough to converse with, Mother's arrival could come at any moment. He could only hope and pray his wait would not be too unbearably long.
Just then, he found himself in a kind of common room, sparsely furnished and not at all like the richly decorated, warm parlors he was used to. He sat rather primly in a vacant armchair, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, which he'd found while searching for proper attire in that curious little hamper they called the clothes box.
In his hand was a leather bound volume of Shakespeare's collected works, something that had always given him great comfort, a flood of memories assaulting his mind, his heart, of hours spent listening to mother recite those familiar lines, her sweet William knelt at her feet with his head come to rest on her lap.
He did so wish that she could be there with him, in that very moment, in such an alarming and exotic place.
[[He looks almost exactly as he does in the icon, dressed appropriately for a gentleman of modest means, in the late 1870s. He is wearing glasses, and his hair is longer, curlier, and honey-blonde.]]
Mother had always stressed a thorough education, including all the classics, all of which they'd read together, in the parlor, in the dim light of the fire and gas-fueled table lamps. He had a rudimentary knowledge of Greek and Latin, as every proper, well-bred young man should, and he found it charming that they'd given the island -- a place the likes of which he'd never seen -- such a clever name.
He missed Mother terribly, however, but he took comfort in the knowledge that, according to the lovely island natives he'd been fortunate enough to converse with, Mother's arrival could come at any moment. He could only hope and pray his wait would not be too unbearably long.
Just then, he found himself in a kind of common room, sparsely furnished and not at all like the richly decorated, warm parlors he was used to. He sat rather primly in a vacant armchair, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, which he'd found while searching for proper attire in that curious little hamper they called the clothes box.
In his hand was a leather bound volume of Shakespeare's collected works, something that had always given him great comfort, a flood of memories assaulting his mind, his heart, of hours spent listening to mother recite those familiar lines, her sweet William knelt at her feet with his head come to rest on her lap.
He did so wish that she could be there with him, in that very moment, in such an alarming and exotic place.
[[He looks almost exactly as he does in the icon, dressed appropriately for a gentleman of modest means, in the late 1870s. He is wearing glasses, and his hair is longer, curlier, and honey-blonde.]]