Bank of the Lost
Oct. 24th, 2013 11:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
talonkarrdeThe boy wakes in the middle of the night, bleary and confused and wondering where the sun was and why he was awake at all if the sun wasn't up. And then he wraps the comforter more snugly around him and sighs contentedly and—
A dish breaks, downstairs, the sharp crack of it dispelling the sleepiness instantly.
He knows why he woke up now; he strains his ears and hears the muffled voices, the building tempo of accusation and retort, and his face scrunches up, trying to ignore it, trying to make it just go away through sheer force of will.
It doesn't, and then the voices get louder and louder, the shouts more angry, the responses faster, until it builds and builds and he can't take it anymore and then, mercifully, another dish breaks or is thrown or something and there's silence for a moment.
He counts the seconds in his head and gets all the way to two before it starts again, and then the shouts, the screams, the pounding in his head builds and builds and presses out and he can't stop it no matter how much he tries to block it out and all he can do is run.
He hops out of bed and yanks the the door open, sliding and tripping down the stairs, past his mother and father in the kitchen, past the dishes, the shards, the hatred, out the back door, the screen door hinges protesting as he pushes through it, the sound of his name following him out.
He pays it no mind, running into the sparse woods, sobbing and choking and blindly pressing forward and when he cares about where he is anymore, he's on a street, his feet hurt, and his star wars pyjamas are dirty and dusty and his parents will be very unhappy at him but he would rather that than they be unhappy at each other and—
Then he notices that he's, in fact, not alone. There's a girl sitting behind a wooden desk and sign on one of the lawns close by, staring at him. It could almost be a lemonade stand, but for the fact that it's late at night and there's no lemonade and the sign says... something. Something that isn't lemonade, something he can't make out.
So he takes a few steps closer, rubbing at his eyes, squinting and putting on a face that he hopes is a bit more composed than it was before. And before he can read the sign, she speaks, softly and kindly. She has freckles, and brown hair, and is a few years older than him, though not by much.
"Got lost, kiddo?" she asks, clasping her hands in front of her and leaning forward.
"No, no, I just..." he shrugs, falling silent, not wanting to reveal why he was here and not being able to make anything up off the top of his head.
"S'fine, you know. People get lost all the time. And usually they get found again. GPSes and all that," she says into the quiet, and then goes on, chattering away. "Really cool tech these days and all. Sort of makes it so you're never lost, no matter where you are, on the highest mountains or in the sea or in foreign countries."
He looks at her, and slowly, the throbbing in his head dulls. Her voice is pleasant, and friendly, and he stands there and lets her talk for awhile, until he realizes that she's staring at him, rather expectantly.
"What?" he asks, confused.
"I asked," she says, patiently, "what brought you out here?"
He looks around, still hesitant to answer the question, and then looks faintly confused. "Isn't this Oak Street? I didn't know that there was anyone in middle school who lived out here."
"I don't get out much," she says, still smiling, but it's a fraction less wide than it was. "I'm homeschooled, and so there's not as much chance for me to meet the people that go to the middle school."
"Oh," is all he responds with. And she still has that waiting expression on her face, so he shrugs, and says, "my parents were fighting," quietly, just above a whisper, as he starts blinking the tears away.
And now it's her turn to mutter the 'oh', and she nods, the smiling falling away. He shrugs, turning away from her and looking back at his house, across the field, until he hears a noise from behind him.
She opens the drawer and takes out a few different objects — a carved wooden sparrow, which she places so that it is upright on the desk, a tin whistle, and a worn pack of cards.
"I'd like you to-" she hesitates, for the first time in the night, but steels herself and continues. "To choose one of these. They'll help you out. I know it's weird, but choose one, and I'll tell you the story of it, and you can make a choice."
He blinks, looking down at the items on the desk. Knickkacks, really. Wordlessly, he points to the sparrow.
"The sparrow," she says, closing her eyes and reciting from memory, "is a sign of courage in the face of adversity, of finding hope in the darkest of times. Keep it with you and remember that even in the night, the sun will rise and the sparrow will sing again."
He looks hesitant, but then she reaches into her pocket and brings out an identical one.
"And you should know that you're never alone and there will always be others in your flock, who will support you."
Now he finally understands and slowly, carefully, reaches out to pick it up, feeling the lightness, turning it over and over again.
She waits for a few moments and then yawns, exaggeratedly. "Alright, kiddo. Past my bedtime, and probably yours."
He nods, ready to go back and face the music, but there's one thing missing. "I'm Rex," he says. "What's your name?"
"Diana," she responds, the smile returned. "Goddess of the moon."
As Rex heads home, slowly rolling the sparrow in his fingers, he turns back one last time, and finally gets to read the sign just as she folds it away.
Bank of the Lost, it reads, and Rex smiles, for the first time that night.
---
A writing duel between myself and![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mahmoth. We've been doing these on and off for years and years now (and were some of the first things I posted to this livejournal) but the last one was some time ago, and it was nice to get back into it. The constraints are that we only get two hours to write and that there's a ~500 word limit. The latter one I had completely forgotten, blew past, and so DQ'd myself, but thought the piece itself was still worth posting.
A dish breaks, downstairs, the sharp crack of it dispelling the sleepiness instantly.
He knows why he woke up now; he strains his ears and hears the muffled voices, the building tempo of accusation and retort, and his face scrunches up, trying to ignore it, trying to make it just go away through sheer force of will.
It doesn't, and then the voices get louder and louder, the shouts more angry, the responses faster, until it builds and builds and he can't take it anymore and then, mercifully, another dish breaks or is thrown or something and there's silence for a moment.
He counts the seconds in his head and gets all the way to two before it starts again, and then the shouts, the screams, the pounding in his head builds and builds and presses out and he can't stop it no matter how much he tries to block it out and all he can do is run.
He hops out of bed and yanks the the door open, sliding and tripping down the stairs, past his mother and father in the kitchen, past the dishes, the shards, the hatred, out the back door, the screen door hinges protesting as he pushes through it, the sound of his name following him out.
He pays it no mind, running into the sparse woods, sobbing and choking and blindly pressing forward and when he cares about where he is anymore, he's on a street, his feet hurt, and his star wars pyjamas are dirty and dusty and his parents will be very unhappy at him but he would rather that than they be unhappy at each other and—
Then he notices that he's, in fact, not alone. There's a girl sitting behind a wooden desk and sign on one of the lawns close by, staring at him. It could almost be a lemonade stand, but for the fact that it's late at night and there's no lemonade and the sign says... something. Something that isn't lemonade, something he can't make out.
So he takes a few steps closer, rubbing at his eyes, squinting and putting on a face that he hopes is a bit more composed than it was before. And before he can read the sign, she speaks, softly and kindly. She has freckles, and brown hair, and is a few years older than him, though not by much.
"Got lost, kiddo?" she asks, clasping her hands in front of her and leaning forward.
"No, no, I just..." he shrugs, falling silent, not wanting to reveal why he was here and not being able to make anything up off the top of his head.
"S'fine, you know. People get lost all the time. And usually they get found again. GPSes and all that," she says into the quiet, and then goes on, chattering away. "Really cool tech these days and all. Sort of makes it so you're never lost, no matter where you are, on the highest mountains or in the sea or in foreign countries."
He looks at her, and slowly, the throbbing in his head dulls. Her voice is pleasant, and friendly, and he stands there and lets her talk for awhile, until he realizes that she's staring at him, rather expectantly.
"What?" he asks, confused.
"I asked," she says, patiently, "what brought you out here?"
He looks around, still hesitant to answer the question, and then looks faintly confused. "Isn't this Oak Street? I didn't know that there was anyone in middle school who lived out here."
"I don't get out much," she says, still smiling, but it's a fraction less wide than it was. "I'm homeschooled, and so there's not as much chance for me to meet the people that go to the middle school."
"Oh," is all he responds with. And she still has that waiting expression on her face, so he shrugs, and says, "my parents were fighting," quietly, just above a whisper, as he starts blinking the tears away.
And now it's her turn to mutter the 'oh', and she nods, the smiling falling away. He shrugs, turning away from her and looking back at his house, across the field, until he hears a noise from behind him.
She opens the drawer and takes out a few different objects — a carved wooden sparrow, which she places so that it is upright on the desk, a tin whistle, and a worn pack of cards.
"I'd like you to-" she hesitates, for the first time in the night, but steels herself and continues. "To choose one of these. They'll help you out. I know it's weird, but choose one, and I'll tell you the story of it, and you can make a choice."
He blinks, looking down at the items on the desk. Knickkacks, really. Wordlessly, he points to the sparrow.
"The sparrow," she says, closing her eyes and reciting from memory, "is a sign of courage in the face of adversity, of finding hope in the darkest of times. Keep it with you and remember that even in the night, the sun will rise and the sparrow will sing again."
He looks hesitant, but then she reaches into her pocket and brings out an identical one.
"And you should know that you're never alone and there will always be others in your flock, who will support you."
Now he finally understands and slowly, carefully, reaches out to pick it up, feeling the lightness, turning it over and over again.
She waits for a few moments and then yawns, exaggeratedly. "Alright, kiddo. Past my bedtime, and probably yours."
He nods, ready to go back and face the music, but there's one thing missing. "I'm Rex," he says. "What's your name?"
"Diana," she responds, the smile returned. "Goddess of the moon."
As Rex heads home, slowly rolling the sparrow in his fingers, he turns back one last time, and finally gets to read the sign just as she folds it away.
Bank of the Lost, it reads, and Rex smiles, for the first time that night.
---
A writing duel between myself and
mahmoth. We've been doing these on and off for years and years now (and were some of the first things I posted to this livejournal) but the last one was some time ago, and it was nice to get back into it. The constraints are that we only get two hours to write and that there's a ~500 word limit. The latter one I had completely forgotten, blew past, and so DQ'd myself, but thought the piece itself was still worth posting.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-10-24 06:35 pm (UTC)I laughed when I read this -- I was just about to tell you that there's no way this is just 500 wordsish long. =p It was a nice read, though, and I very much enjoyed it. :)
no subject
Date: 2013-10-24 08:27 pm (UTC)Dang, that's often DAYS worth of writing for me. Definitely not 2 hours worth. :O
no subject
Date: 2013-10-24 08:41 pm (UTC)I don't want to admit what I can write in 2 hours if I was given uninterrupted writing time and could focus... Though I usually can't focus for 2 hours. My attention's been all over the place, lately.
no subject
Date: 2013-10-24 10:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-24 08:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-24 10:19 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading!
no subject
Date: 2013-10-25 01:09 am (UTC)I really liked this. I think you write atmosphere and mood so well.
no subject
Date: 2013-10-25 05:09 am (UTC)(and thank you)