You can imagine on a writing site that the prompt ‘Font’ would elicit many clever stories personifying Sans Serif, fighting in CAPITALS, falling in love in flowery letters, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to match some of the other authors and so went with a story that takes place around a baptismal font.
The wind blew in through the porch of the draughty old Norman church, which had been the Borthwick’s place of worship for generations and whose patron saint gave the male heirs their names.
The Sunday morning service concluded, the family moved to cluster around the old stone baptismal font. The entire clan was gathered, in their finery, to formally bestow their ancestral patronym on the newest member of the centuries old dynasty. They had all been christened in the same place and all had worn the same elaborate lace gown.
Will and his wife stood nervously together with the godparents, two male and one female as tradition prescribed for a boy.
After intoning the prayers, the vicar asked, ‘What is the name of this child?’ He held his arms out to receive him.
Will stumbled, ‘W-Wilfrid Dunstan Oswa…’
‘You coward,’ hissed his wife, stepping forward. ‘Kyle, his name is Kyle.’
Ha! Love this.
Brilliant!