This is the beginning of a book I recently started working on. Feel free to give out a suggestion for the title, because I'm stumped there :down:.
The boy lay in his bed, happy as he could possibly be, with his book in hand and with some milk on his bedside table. Oliver Mason was one of those rare twelve year olds in Ostend that appreciated books and authors and literature in general. He appreciated Geoffrey Chaucer more than any others, with his great The Canterbury Tales.
It’d been a rainy day in Belgium, so most of the other boys mourned because they could not play outside. Oliver, on the other hand, loved these days. He could read all he liked and his mother would never come to his room and ask him to go outside and play with the other boys. It wasn’t that he disliked physical play in itself; more like he hated getting knocked down during tag, not to mention never tagging anyone because of his scrawny legs. Inside or out, Oliver loved reading more than anything else; while other boys liked playing outside and calling Oliver names.
Oliver read deep into the night, almost finishing The Canterbury Tales again, but he eventually read himself to sleep, book closed on his small hands.
It’d been a rainy day in Belgium, so most of the other boys mourned because they could not play outside. Oliver, on the other hand, loved these days. He could read all he liked and his mother would never come to his room and ask him to go outside and play with the other boys. It wasn’t that he disliked physical play in itself; more like he hated getting knocked down during tag, not to mention never tagging anyone because of his scrawny legs. Inside or out, Oliver loved reading more than anything else; while other boys liked playing outside and calling Oliver names.
Oliver read deep into the night, almost finishing The Canterbury Tales again, but he eventually read himself to sleep, book closed on his small hands.