We rode across that bridge all night
I totally suck. Because I have all these fics I should be working on - plus, you know, actual work and such - and yet...nothing. Writer's block, or whatever. Instead I wrote this little dialogue-centered original fiction, and I have absolutely no idea where it came from. Posting anyway?
Title: Butterflies
Author: Moi, of course.
Summary: A girl, a boy, a bus, and a conversation.
Wow, actually no need for a disclaimer. That's an odd feeling.
“I like it here,” the girl said decidedly. “It’s the trees, I think. I mean, just look at them. Tell me you’ve seen greener trees than those before and I’ll give you the watch off my wrist.”
“I’ve seen greener trees than those before,” the boy replied.
“Well,” she started. She pulled her purse onto her lap, blinking as the bus went over a dip in the road. “I don’t believe you’re telling the truth. Those are some damn green trees.”
The boy turned away, rolling his eyes.
“Where are you from?” she asked, smiling again.
“Not here,” he answered.
“I’m originally from White Rock,” she continued. “That’s in British Colombia. You know, Canada.”
“Interesting.”
“Isn’t it just?” she grinned. “I never meant to get here, you know.” She paused, lips pursed. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I got here?”
“Wasn’t planning on it, actually.”
She ignored him. “That college? Middlebury? That’s where I’m headed. Got myself a scholarship and everything.”
“Congratulations,” he muttered.
“Thank you,” she said sweetly, and she put her hand on his, crossed in his lap. He looked at her strangely, pulling away.
“I’ve always thought a touch could fix most things,” she whispered, as if sharing a secret. “Cuts, tears, heartache - you get anything that’s broken and some sort of touch is sure to put it back together. You look a little broken yourself.”
“Just tired,” he said, gritting his teeth.
“I don’t think that’s it,” she told him. “Something else. Is it a girl?”
“No.”
“A boy?”
“No.”
“Hey,” she said, holding up her hands, “not my place to judge. Is it family?”
“I don’t have a family.”
“Everyone has a family,” she replied. “You got friends, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you got family,” she nodded. “My mom died when I was little and Dad left barely after she hit the ground. Doesn’t mean I don’t have family.”
“Yeah, well,” he sighed. “That’s not it, anyhow.”
“So you admit there’s something, then,” she commented.
“What?”
“You said ‘that’s not it,’ meaning that there’s an ‘it’ to be it, like I said there was.”
“Look, can you just stop talking?”
“My guess is,” she began, “nobody much bothers to talk to you. Not strangers, not the people you know. That’s why you’re wound up so tight. No one talks to you, you don’t get to talk back.”
“I like it that way.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
The boy didn’t answer. She stared at him for another moment, then turned forward, her lips pursed in thought.
“What’s wrong with liking the quiet?” he asked suddenly. She smiled, as though expecting the question.
“Nothing. Except, well…what about all the people who don’t get to talk to you?”
The boy turned to her, confused. “Excuse me?”
“I’m only saying. What about them? All the people you maybe, possibly could have changed, who won’t be changed, because you like it that way.”
“That makes absolutely no sense. If I never talked to them, they wouldn’t have been changed in the first place.” He rolled his eyes. “And, anyway, it’s not like talking to them would do anything.”
The girl shrugged. “Butterflies, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You know. Step on a butterfly, start a war. Change time. Maybe it wouldn’t have done anything - talking to them. Or maybe not.”
“Well,” the boy started, cocking his head, “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”
The girl smiled. “That’s the idea.”
Before he could reply, the bus jerked to a stop and the girl stood up, moving to the aisle. “Gotta go,” she said to the boy. “I’ve got that fancy scholarship to make use of.”
She half-smiled and kissed his cheek, winking. “Butterflies, right?” He nodded, watching as she walked off the bus, not looking back.
What she doesn’t see is the boy turning to the girl across from him. She doesn’t see his cracked smile and careful greeting, or how he tells her that he’s from out west, far from here, and how he misses home. She doesn’t see, but she knows.
Outside the window, there’s a flutter of wings.
Title: Butterflies
Author: Moi, of course.
Summary: A girl, a boy, a bus, and a conversation.
Wow, actually no need for a disclaimer. That's an odd feeling.
“I like it here,” the girl said decidedly. “It’s the trees, I think. I mean, just look at them. Tell me you’ve seen greener trees than those before and I’ll give you the watch off my wrist.”
“I’ve seen greener trees than those before,” the boy replied.
“Well,” she started. She pulled her purse onto her lap, blinking as the bus went over a dip in the road. “I don’t believe you’re telling the truth. Those are some damn green trees.”
The boy turned away, rolling his eyes.
“Where are you from?” she asked, smiling again.
“Not here,” he answered.
“I’m originally from White Rock,” she continued. “That’s in British Colombia. You know, Canada.”
“Interesting.”
“Isn’t it just?” she grinned. “I never meant to get here, you know.” She paused, lips pursed. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I got here?”
“Wasn’t planning on it, actually.”
She ignored him. “That college? Middlebury? That’s where I’m headed. Got myself a scholarship and everything.”
“Congratulations,” he muttered.
“Thank you,” she said sweetly, and she put her hand on his, crossed in his lap. He looked at her strangely, pulling away.
“I’ve always thought a touch could fix most things,” she whispered, as if sharing a secret. “Cuts, tears, heartache - you get anything that’s broken and some sort of touch is sure to put it back together. You look a little broken yourself.”
“Just tired,” he said, gritting his teeth.
“I don’t think that’s it,” she told him. “Something else. Is it a girl?”
“No.”
“A boy?”
“No.”
“Hey,” she said, holding up her hands, “not my place to judge. Is it family?”
“I don’t have a family.”
“Everyone has a family,” she replied. “You got friends, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you got family,” she nodded. “My mom died when I was little and Dad left barely after she hit the ground. Doesn’t mean I don’t have family.”
“Yeah, well,” he sighed. “That’s not it, anyhow.”
“So you admit there’s something, then,” she commented.
“What?”
“You said ‘that’s not it,’ meaning that there’s an ‘it’ to be it, like I said there was.”
“Look, can you just stop talking?”
“My guess is,” she began, “nobody much bothers to talk to you. Not strangers, not the people you know. That’s why you’re wound up so tight. No one talks to you, you don’t get to talk back.”
“I like it that way.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
The boy didn’t answer. She stared at him for another moment, then turned forward, her lips pursed in thought.
“What’s wrong with liking the quiet?” he asked suddenly. She smiled, as though expecting the question.
“Nothing. Except, well…what about all the people who don’t get to talk to you?”
The boy turned to her, confused. “Excuse me?”
“I’m only saying. What about them? All the people you maybe, possibly could have changed, who won’t be changed, because you like it that way.”
“That makes absolutely no sense. If I never talked to them, they wouldn’t have been changed in the first place.” He rolled his eyes. “And, anyway, it’s not like talking to them would do anything.”
The girl shrugged. “Butterflies, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You know. Step on a butterfly, start a war. Change time. Maybe it wouldn’t have done anything - talking to them. Or maybe not.”
“Well,” the boy started, cocking his head, “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”
The girl smiled. “That’s the idea.”
Before he could reply, the bus jerked to a stop and the girl stood up, moving to the aisle. “Gotta go,” she said to the boy. “I’ve got that fancy scholarship to make use of.”
She half-smiled and kissed his cheek, winking. “Butterflies, right?” He nodded, watching as she walked off the bus, not looking back.
What she doesn’t see is the boy turning to the girl across from him. She doesn’t see his cracked smile and careful greeting, or how he tells her that he’s from out west, far from here, and how he misses home. She doesn’t see, but she knows.
Outside the window, there’s a flutter of wings.