People talked about him in whispers, perhaps rightly so. For, while other kids had colds, threw tantrums, got sick, and generally tended to piss adults off, not so her Percival. Oh no, he just sat under his blanket with that laptop, tap-tapping his childhood into oblivion.
So she took him to a doctor, who referred her to a specialist, who referred her to a psychiatrist. Without luck- for they declared him to be normal- odd, but normal, and healthy. So she ignored him, slyly declaring to the world that her little Shakespeare is one day sure to pip every writer alive to the post for the Booker prize in literature. Thus allowing him to blissfully keep at it: practicing, creating, experimenting, his grey-green eyes sparkling each time he mastered the intricacies of yet another syntax, overcoming the prescientific perception of gothic alliterations, applying some repetitive strain of allusion, adapting a post modernic slant regarding the concept of metonomy. Oh yes, he was quite the master of literature, a regular semantic pinball wizard.
And his output was unbelievable, eventually obliging him to acquire 20 terrabytes worth of external hard drives. And bolstered by this capacity he tripled his efforts, re-visiting previously explored perceptions, making minor changes here, major changes there, adding new characters, creating fresh plots, editing that which he previously deemed to be perfect.
But, of course he could not keep going like he did. And one Sunday morning in April, when his mother was assaulted by silence, she sort of knew that something serious was amiss. Thus she called the cops, who rushed forth like the proverbial fools, with sirens wailing, for everyone knew about the odd kid.
When they lifted the blanket, young Percival appeared to be deep in thought, as if he was seriously contemplating his next line. But they could not read for shit, seeing that his screensaver was scrolling from left to right: "I DID IT MY WAY." Yes, Percival was no more.
And of course they could not plant him soon enough, for everyone knew how prolific a writer he was, how seriously he applied himself, how intensely he plotted each and every new project. Yes, every dignitary of note in the world of literature vied for a seat in the church.
At last the deed was done, and the Booker foundation's computer expert managed to gain access to the late Percival’s creations. The chairman was rightfully overawed, ecstatically so, declaring the fruits of Percival’s labour to be extraordinarily creative, his knowledge of the English language simply astounding, magnificent in its application. However, he added, "unfortunately" not of a strain that might interest the august institution.
Unnecessary to mention that his mother was seriously disappointed, later that same day declaring on the Oprah show: “What a sorry state of affairs that pornographic limericks are still frowned upon.”
ps. Dr Phil refused to allow "that krazy woman" onto his show.
I have to say I am firstly very impressed with the quality of this story. While I do not know your background I have to imagine you have either been writing for quite some time or you, yourself, have a little of Percival within you.
Secondly, this story was immediately engrossing. It held my interest and attention throughout, not the least because of how well each sentence appeared to be crafted.
I think the comical twist you added at the end was well received.
Once again welcome to Quoteland, if this is the quality we can come to regularly expect from you, I should find myself becoming quite a fan.
Aeras, much obliged. English for me is an acquired language. Percival is a take on how we perhaps tend to rather judge either the artist or the subject matter, instead of his competence within a specific genre. And I suppose if one has read more than 15 000 books you should, sometimes manage something half-decent. Actually, I go for the more serious stuff, in order to eat! But, if it is ok with you I can post my simplification of some philosophers?
This brought back fond memories of my youth, when I would wage war with a single stubborn piece throughout the night and into the daylight. I would empty my soul into my work, with no higher aim in mind than just the art's own sake.
I miss those days.
Thanks for sharing.
Posts: 329 | Location: Grande Prairie, Alberta | Registered: 10-06-02