Prompt: What is your dream occupation?
What? You think being a petty thief ain't my dream occupation?
Shows what you all know.
FPK
The ranch was his to run right or run into the ground someday. Mal knew that before he was conscious of knowing what knowing something was. His first memories of it were sitting in Kilrain or his Momma's lap, clutching the mane of the horse they was riding.
Mal didn't much care about the cattle they was seeing. Cows were food. As long as his belly was full, the rest didn't seem to matter much.
His Momma and good fortune never let his belly be empty.
It weren't until he was eleven he understood not everyone was so lucky.
It wasn't until he was eleven he understood.
The plains he loved, the hills of gold grass or green, the ones he always stared at longingly when he was supposed to be looking at the gorram cows. They was red.
The cows didn't look nothing like cows. Not even when they slaughtered theirs for their own bellies before sending the rest out for sale. No.
The cows looked nothing like cows and the people were worse.
Reavers.
Mal had known what Reavers were. Stories of them had kept him awake nights, checking the windows to make sure they was covered, to make sure no light crept out so they couldn't be seen from the skies. Anything to keep the Reavers from catching an interest in the homestead.
They killed his Daddy before Mal was even born. His aunts and uncles. His grandparents even before that. The hands that were his family as much as his Momma kept them alive for Mal, the old scarred ones who hadn't been at the homestead that day like his Momma, and the young ones that came with their own stories of their homes that Mal listened to eagerly.
Mal had known what Reavers were, but he hadn't seen before that. Cattle slain. Men, worse than dead. A friend without a Daddy and no food for his family for the Dark Season but charity.
No one remembered whose idea it was after it went terribly horribly wrong, but a few of them stopped being ranchers that day though they didn't tell no one and schemed in secret. What good was the ranch when it could be gone in a moments notice?
No one tried to stop the Reavers.
The boys decided that had to change.
Guns were part of ranch life. Putting down an animal when it went bad, that were something that came with it too. The concept didn't seem too hard. The implementation took them years to pull off. Not too many though. They was still boys then, with dreams that they could make a difference when grown men hadn't.
They were wrong.
After, the ranch was all Mal wanted. Just one safe place for him and his Momma and his someday wife and whelps. That was all he could hope to keep safe, and even that was a stretch.
He didn't forget though, wanting to do something more than that.
But he told himself he put childish dreams aside.
Until the war came.
Then it weren't childish to want to change things. Then it was only right.
Things didn't change, but Mal did.
He couldn't even keep a square of dirt safe.
But he had a new dream. A shiny one.
He named her Serenity.
Shows what you all know.
FPK
The ranch was his to run right or run into the ground someday. Mal knew that before he was conscious of knowing what knowing something was. His first memories of it were sitting in Kilrain or his Momma's lap, clutching the mane of the horse they was riding.
Mal didn't much care about the cattle they was seeing. Cows were food. As long as his belly was full, the rest didn't seem to matter much.
His Momma and good fortune never let his belly be empty.
It weren't until he was eleven he understood not everyone was so lucky.
It wasn't until he was eleven he understood.
The plains he loved, the hills of gold grass or green, the ones he always stared at longingly when he was supposed to be looking at the gorram cows. They was red.
The cows didn't look nothing like cows. Not even when they slaughtered theirs for their own bellies before sending the rest out for sale. No.
The cows looked nothing like cows and the people were worse.
Reavers.
Mal had known what Reavers were. Stories of them had kept him awake nights, checking the windows to make sure they was covered, to make sure no light crept out so they couldn't be seen from the skies. Anything to keep the Reavers from catching an interest in the homestead.
They killed his Daddy before Mal was even born. His aunts and uncles. His grandparents even before that. The hands that were his family as much as his Momma kept them alive for Mal, the old scarred ones who hadn't been at the homestead that day like his Momma, and the young ones that came with their own stories of their homes that Mal listened to eagerly.
Mal had known what Reavers were, but he hadn't seen before that. Cattle slain. Men, worse than dead. A friend without a Daddy and no food for his family for the Dark Season but charity.
No one remembered whose idea it was after it went terribly horribly wrong, but a few of them stopped being ranchers that day though they didn't tell no one and schemed in secret. What good was the ranch when it could be gone in a moments notice?
No one tried to stop the Reavers.
The boys decided that had to change.
Guns were part of ranch life. Putting down an animal when it went bad, that were something that came with it too. The concept didn't seem too hard. The implementation took them years to pull off. Not too many though. They was still boys then, with dreams that they could make a difference when grown men hadn't.
They were wrong.
After, the ranch was all Mal wanted. Just one safe place for him and his Momma and his someday wife and whelps. That was all he could hope to keep safe, and even that was a stretch.
He didn't forget though, wanting to do something more than that.
But he told himself he put childish dreams aside.
Until the war came.
Then it weren't childish to want to change things. Then it was only right.
Things didn't change, but Mal did.
He couldn't even keep a square of dirt safe.
But he had a new dream. A shiny one.
He named her Serenity.