Brigit's Flame -- "Aspirations"
Prompt: "aspirations"
Word Count: 527
Warnings: ...not much
Author's Note: I was stuck on everything else I was trying to write, so I finished this. I don't make sense to me, either. >_> ...oh, yeah, Micah and Todd showed up here first. :)
"ASPIRATIONS"
Todd has pushed the screen out, the better to lean a little ways out the window, cigarette in hand, smoke trailing forlornly towards the eaves. Micah’s not entirely sure what difference it makes, given that the whole house has a persistent air of Eau de Tobacco anyway.
He’s also not entirely sure why it’s always raining.
“I don’t want to do anything,” he decides, arms folded on the table, chin laid on them.
Todd ignores the gathering puddles in favor of looking at him, one eyebrow arching. “Do you mean today?” he asks. “Or in your lifetime?”
Micah figures that Todd must be an interpretative god among men, because it’s statistically unlikely that everyone else is just too stupid to understand.
To be fair, Micah isn’t particularly straightforward with everyone else.
“It’s pretty much impossible to make an impact,” he points out. “On a couple people, sure, but not on the whole world. But everybody thinks they’re something. Everybody thinks they’re important. And everybody wants to be a household name, even though the actuality of it is probably pretty lame, and… I dunno. I give up.”
Todd taps ashes into the gallon bucket under the window, which is half-filled with water, droplets plinking on its surface.
“What now, then?” he prompts. “Retirement? Are you planning to inherit a fortune?”
Micah huffs at the sarcasm, and the way his bangs flutter in his eyes remind him that he should see about a haircut.
Or about a pair of scissors.
“I wish,” he answers. “My parents named me Micah. You don’t name a kid Micah if you don’t expect him to do something.”
“Come on,” Todd counters. “John Smith? John Adams? John Milton? Jane Austen? Mary Shelley? Will Shakespeare? Bill Gates? You don’t have to be, like, Ezekiel Studmuffin to make a difference. For every George Washington, there have to be a dozen unnamed soldiers.”
“The ones that fall into the Delaware and drown,” Micah notes.
“Drown for their country,” Todd corrects.
“You diverted the conversation,” Micah points out.
Todd takes a long drag on the cigarette and blows smoke out into the rain.
“You’re seventeen years old,” he says quietly. “You’ve got a lot of time to figure out what you want to do.”
“I don’t want to do anything,” Micah repeats, doggedly now.
Todd leans back against the window-frame, hands splayed out on behind him, the cigarette trapped between his first finger and the sill. Ashes crumble.
“You’ve got to do something,” he concludes. “Nobody can sit around in their mom’s house playing Tetris and eating Pop Tarts forever.”
“I like Tetris,” Micah mutters into his arms. “And Pop Tarts.”
“Me, too,” Todd replies.
Micah watches Todd’s eyes wander over the contours of the dim kitchen-countertops blunt, stainless faucet gleaming, appliances in shadow-and wonders why they never turn a light on.
“You don’t have to be George Washington,” Todd remarks. “You don’t have to change the world, or fix it, or make it your oyster. You just have to try.” He brings the cigarette to his lips.
“What I need,” Micah mumbles, “is a radioactive spider,” and Todd chokes on the smoke as he laughs.
Word Count: 527
Warnings: ...not much
Author's Note: I was stuck on everything else I was trying to write, so I finished this. I don't make sense to me, either. >_> ...oh, yeah, Micah and Todd showed up here first. :)
"ASPIRATIONS"
Todd has pushed the screen out, the better to lean a little ways out the window, cigarette in hand, smoke trailing forlornly towards the eaves. Micah’s not entirely sure what difference it makes, given that the whole house has a persistent air of Eau de Tobacco anyway.
He’s also not entirely sure why it’s always raining.
“I don’t want to do anything,” he decides, arms folded on the table, chin laid on them.
Todd ignores the gathering puddles in favor of looking at him, one eyebrow arching. “Do you mean today?” he asks. “Or in your lifetime?”
Micah figures that Todd must be an interpretative god among men, because it’s statistically unlikely that everyone else is just too stupid to understand.
To be fair, Micah isn’t particularly straightforward with everyone else.
“It’s pretty much impossible to make an impact,” he points out. “On a couple people, sure, but not on the whole world. But everybody thinks they’re something. Everybody thinks they’re important. And everybody wants to be a household name, even though the actuality of it is probably pretty lame, and… I dunno. I give up.”
Todd taps ashes into the gallon bucket under the window, which is half-filled with water, droplets plinking on its surface.
“What now, then?” he prompts. “Retirement? Are you planning to inherit a fortune?”
Micah huffs at the sarcasm, and the way his bangs flutter in his eyes remind him that he should see about a haircut.
Or about a pair of scissors.
“I wish,” he answers. “My parents named me Micah. You don’t name a kid Micah if you don’t expect him to do something.”
“Come on,” Todd counters. “John Smith? John Adams? John Milton? Jane Austen? Mary Shelley? Will Shakespeare? Bill Gates? You don’t have to be, like, Ezekiel Studmuffin to make a difference. For every George Washington, there have to be a dozen unnamed soldiers.”
“The ones that fall into the Delaware and drown,” Micah notes.
“Drown for their country,” Todd corrects.
“You diverted the conversation,” Micah points out.
Todd takes a long drag on the cigarette and blows smoke out into the rain.
“You’re seventeen years old,” he says quietly. “You’ve got a lot of time to figure out what you want to do.”
“I don’t want to do anything,” Micah repeats, doggedly now.
Todd leans back against the window-frame, hands splayed out on behind him, the cigarette trapped between his first finger and the sill. Ashes crumble.
“You’ve got to do something,” he concludes. “Nobody can sit around in their mom’s house playing Tetris and eating Pop Tarts forever.”
“I like Tetris,” Micah mutters into his arms. “And Pop Tarts.”
“Me, too,” Todd replies.
Micah watches Todd’s eyes wander over the contours of the dim kitchen-countertops blunt, stainless faucet gleaming, appliances in shadow-and wonders why they never turn a light on.
“You don’t have to be George Washington,” Todd remarks. “You don’t have to change the world, or fix it, or make it your oyster. You just have to try.” He brings the cigarette to his lips.
“What I need,” Micah mumbles, “is a radioactive spider,” and Todd chokes on the smoke as he laughs.