Audita Sum (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} auditasum) wrote,@ 2008-05-28 22:15:00 |
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going promptless, bitches
May 2008
George had always had trouble differentiating between the sacred and the profane, and now, as they were pouring their spit libations onto the thirsty black track, he felt as if it was an offering to the gods of marching band.
Within the first lap, he realized that his arms had grown weak over the winter. Now just holding up the marching French horn had started to hurt, especially during "Salute to America's Finest," the longest song on the parade list.
George hated parades. As a child, he hadn't liked them because of all the large, threatening floats and unbearably loud sirens. The candy had been the only positive thing, but George was a hearty, steak and potatoes kind of man, like his father. Candy was not enough.
Marching in parades was even worse. Last year had been his first parade marching, in the middle of the summer-- it was to celebrate the town's one original product, matches. Ridiculous. But their sweat and ankle-calluses kept the gods happy, and since George was so out of shape cardiovascularly, all the work gave him a high.
George's mouth was getting slippery because of the spit-water leaking out of his mouthpiece. Wiping his face with the back of his hand, he let his eyes stray to the achingly white sun.
Prompt: What's your idea of a perfect vacation?
June 2002
Ed manually rolled down the window of their used sedan, breathing in the clean Algonquin air. Smiling, he caught a glimpse of his wife. Veata was nodding her head in time to the folk music on the radio, even more radiantly beautiful than usual in the pool of sunlight made by the dashboard. How lucky he was. In the back of the car, George, true to character, frowned as if contemplating some sorrowful mystery of the universe. God help him, Ed loved that kid.
As he pulled the sedan into their camping site, George sat up straighter. "Are we there?"
"Yep." Ed smiled with satisfaction. They were going to hike, and fish, and kayak, and cook pizza sandwiches in irons over the fire... It would be like revisiting his childhood, except this time it would be on his own terms, with people he liked.
They came to a stop, and got out of the car. Ed began unfolding and putting together the pop-up trailer that Veata's ex-husband had lent them. George helped him. He was unnaturally tall for his seven years, and Ed often treated him like he was older than he was. But then, George was very intellectually mature, too. Like his mother. They were smart people, smarter than Ed, but that didn't bother him. He was happy to have them.
And Veata was happy to have him, despite circumstances. Ed couldn't believe that just a few years ago, he'd been a solitary trucker, with no family or aspirations. Now he'd gotten a small job at the Subway in town, and had worked his way up to a managerial position. Veata had a job at a used bookstore. They were poor, but Ed was the happiest he'd ever been in his life. No more contemplation of suicide, no more existential angst. He'd made peace with the God that he could no longer make himself worship, and no one cared. He didn't have to talk to his relatives if he didn't want to.
He was free.
May 2008
George had always had trouble differentiating between the sacred and the profane, and now, as they were pouring their spit libations onto the thirsty black track, he felt as if it was an offering to the gods of marching band.
Within the first lap, he realized that his arms had grown weak over the winter. Now just holding up the marching French horn had started to hurt, especially during "Salute to America's Finest," the longest song on the parade list.
George hated parades. As a child, he hadn't liked them because of all the large, threatening floats and unbearably loud sirens. The candy had been the only positive thing, but George was a hearty, steak and potatoes kind of man, like his father. Candy was not enough.
Marching in parades was even worse. Last year had been his first parade marching, in the middle of the summer-- it was to celebrate the town's one original product, matches. Ridiculous. But their sweat and ankle-calluses kept the gods happy, and since George was so out of shape cardiovascularly, all the work gave him a high.
George's mouth was getting slippery because of the spit-water leaking out of his mouthpiece. Wiping his face with the back of his hand, he let his eyes stray to the achingly white sun.
Prompt: What's your idea of a perfect vacation?
June 2002
Ed manually rolled down the window of their used sedan, breathing in the clean Algonquin air. Smiling, he caught a glimpse of his wife. Veata was nodding her head in time to the folk music on the radio, even more radiantly beautiful than usual in the pool of sunlight made by the dashboard. How lucky he was. In the back of the car, George, true to character, frowned as if contemplating some sorrowful mystery of the universe. God help him, Ed loved that kid.
As he pulled the sedan into their camping site, George sat up straighter. "Are we there?"
"Yep." Ed smiled with satisfaction. They were going to hike, and fish, and kayak, and cook pizza sandwiches in irons over the fire... It would be like revisiting his childhood, except this time it would be on his own terms, with people he liked.
They came to a stop, and got out of the car. Ed began unfolding and putting together the pop-up trailer that Veata's ex-husband had lent them. George helped him. He was unnaturally tall for his seven years, and Ed often treated him like he was older than he was. But then, George was very intellectually mature, too. Like his mother. They were smart people, smarter than Ed, but that didn't bother him. He was happy to have them.
And Veata was happy to have him, despite circumstances. Ed couldn't believe that just a few years ago, he'd been a solitary trucker, with no family or aspirations. Now he'd gotten a small job at the Subway in town, and had worked his way up to a managerial position. Veata had a job at a used bookstore. They were poor, but Ed was the happiest he'd ever been in his life. No more contemplation of suicide, no more existential angst. He'd made peace with the God that he could no longer make himself worship, and no one cared. He didn't have to talk to his relatives if he didn't want to.
He was free.