Writing is Hard

David was having trouble getting on with his lessons because the sun was shining outside, and the warm grass smelled like adventure. It was the middle of Summer, but he was home schooled, so his father made him do his lessons anyway, up to 11 am. And that felt like a huge chunk of the day, and the room was dark and damp.

He looked at his pen, focused on the point, tried to see a drop of ink, but there wasn’t one right at that time. So he put the pen to the sheet, quite pointlessly. No words we coming.

What should we do for our fellow man?

That was the subject father had given him for the writing class. Should we give money to the poor? Father said that was not the right way. Proselytize? Yes, father approved of that. We should stop people from doing harm to themselves. That’s what father always said about Jacob. “I oughtta stop that boy from doing more harm to himself.” And mother would say “Leave him be, he’s a grown man now.” David wished father would not drive Jacob away.

There was no clock in the lesson room, and that was good, because David would just stare at the hands and not get any work done. There was a clock in the living room, but no other technology. David had heard the words, but had only a faint idea of what they meant: computer, smartphone, tablet. Not like a pill, a gizmo tablet. The only technology father did not consider technology were farming implements and guns.

But irregardless, the topic of charity was on the agenda.

And then the door creaked, and David jumped up. It was father, came in to check on his progress.

Posted by: Paweł Kowaluk