How's about a extract from a WIP that I've been fighting with for the last (checks notes) eight months?
I'll let you decide if it's a trick or a treat!
It didn’t take him long to regain his bearings once inside, the receptionist, a wizened old lady of unknown antiquity (rumoured to have been the receptionist when his parents had attended the school) simply nodded him straight through the heavy doors into the administration proper, and Jeff followed a well-trodden path to the principal’s office.
The door was open, and Sam Osborne called him inside. She was standing in front of her desk, with a young, nervous looking woman at her side. It took Jeff a minute to recall her name. “Miss Watson, Sam. I take it we’re here about Virgil, then?”
Miss Watson began wringing her hands, and Jeff eyed her a minute, trying to decide if she was naturally anxious, if he scared her, or if the situation was really as bad as her demeanour suggested.
Sam nodded. “As I said on the phone, Jeff – ah, Mr Cranborne, thank you.”
Jeff turned and exchanged pleasantries with James Cranborne, Virgil’s form advisor. The man was carrying a large covered object, but twelve years living with Virgil meant he could recognise an art canvas, even if it was in a packing crate.
The object was rested with obvious reverence against the principal’s large desk, and Sam motioned to a circle of chairs around a low table. As they settled, she started again. “As I said on the phone, Jeff, we’re worried. And, to be perfectly honest, none of us know what to make of this. We were hoping you might have some … insight.”
Jeff’s frown deepened. “That sounds ominous, Sam.”
Cranborne stepped in. “Sorry, Jeff, but this is so far out of our field of experience, and considering Virgil’s … background …”
Jeff winced. Yes, Vigil’s background. A highly sanitised way of acknowledging his son had been caught in an avalanche with his mother. God only knew when Lucy had died, and how long Virgil had lain trapped in his dead mother’s embrace.
“What happened?” Everyone in the room ignored how rough Jeff’s voice had become.
Sam and Cranborne looked at Miss Watson – what was her Christian name? – who, if anything became more agitated. “It’s … It’s the project he turned in, Mr Tracy,” she whispered.
Jeff frowned. Virgil’s teachers had never done anything but sung Virgil’s praises when it came to art. The boy’s whole life had been an unending choir of art authorities praising him with almost religious fervour. So this was … unexpected, to say the least.
“I’m no authority on art, Miss Watson, so if it somehow falls short …” Jeff spread his hands helplessly.
