Drabble: Sunday Brunch
Title: Sunday Brunch (300)
Author: dark-bruce
Date: October 20, 2008
Universe: Gotham Newsies
Challenge: #1, 'food'
On Sunday's we always had up to a dozen newsboys to the manor house for brunch. It was their reward for sitting as quietly as they could through an hour of church. They'd burst out of the limousines like angry bees shaken loose from their hives, filling the quiet morning with noise and palpable energy. I'd shrink back against my father's sturdy leg, ill at ease with their camaraderie, horseplay and song.
They scared me.
My mother offered them baths and clean clothes, and my father took each one aside and examined him, peering into ears and noses and eyes. I sat on the staircase, watching Alfred pass by carrying soiled knickers and socks that needed darning. I hated it most when he gave them haircuts, imagining the role of a barber beneath such a dignified butler.
When the food was served, the newsboys jostled each other as they grabbed at and even tossed the varied foodstuffs, like rolls and apples. I found their antics no better than peasants at a medieval feast, and I looked in irritation at my parents who only smiled and passed more bowls and platters their way.
They seemed too happy to be over-worked or starving. How could they end the day entertaining my parents with their songs and dances if they were the miserable creatures described to me?
They often tried to cajole me into joining one of their dances. I shook my head stubbornly at the suggestion, and sat quietly watching as they leaped and turned and twirled on the polished floor. I thought their amazing performances were fueled by the largesse of my family, until years later I saw them downtown on a Sunday afternoon, dancing in the street with the same energy, sharing nothing but a loaf of bread among them.
Author: dark-bruce
Date: October 20, 2008
Universe: Gotham Newsies
Challenge: #1, 'food'
On Sunday's we always had up to a dozen newsboys to the manor house for brunch. It was their reward for sitting as quietly as they could through an hour of church. They'd burst out of the limousines like angry bees shaken loose from their hives, filling the quiet morning with noise and palpable energy. I'd shrink back against my father's sturdy leg, ill at ease with their camaraderie, horseplay and song.
They scared me.
My mother offered them baths and clean clothes, and my father took each one aside and examined him, peering into ears and noses and eyes. I sat on the staircase, watching Alfred pass by carrying soiled knickers and socks that needed darning. I hated it most when he gave them haircuts, imagining the role of a barber beneath such a dignified butler.
When the food was served, the newsboys jostled each other as they grabbed at and even tossed the varied foodstuffs, like rolls and apples. I found their antics no better than peasants at a medieval feast, and I looked in irritation at my parents who only smiled and passed more bowls and platters their way.
They seemed too happy to be over-worked or starving. How could they end the day entertaining my parents with their songs and dances if they were the miserable creatures described to me?
They often tried to cajole me into joining one of their dances. I shook my head stubbornly at the suggestion, and sat quietly watching as they leaped and turned and twirled on the polished floor. I thought their amazing performances were fueled by the largesse of my family, until years later I saw them downtown on a Sunday afternoon, dancing in the street with the same energy, sharing nothing but a loaf of bread among them.