Crashes/Throws My Spirit
It was late at night when Alfred shrieked and almost jumped out of his skin at a rock hitting his window.
He fell off his bed and crashed onto a pile of textbooks painfully, Xbox controller ripping out of the machine, then scrambled up and peered over his bed as the second one hit. Carefully, he crawled around his bed, watching the video for a monster’s face or worse, the video game’s soundtrack not helping as his character, suddenly motionless, was pounced on by the living dead. He looked over his windowsill; nothing on the roof. He stood up a little to see the ground a story below and found Arthur standing there, arms crossed and foot tapping.
Al’s fear vanished, replaced with a grin as he opened his window. He leaned out, bracing his hands on the roof, and called quietly, “Heya, Art! What’s up?”
“Don’t yell, you’ll wake everyone,” Arthur snapped. “Let me in.”
Al laughed quietly. “Sure thing.” He left his window and turned off his Xbox, creeping down the edge of the stairs and padding through the kitchen to the back door, sliding the dead bolt to let a scowling Arthur in.
Al had seen these signs before and knew that Arthur had gotten in another stupid fight with his mother or father or one of his brothers and left. He’d steal one of his dad’s collection of beers -
“Why doesn’t your dad buy imports?”
-dig through his fruit basket for a banana-
“Your mum always buys them half green, for the love of Christ-”
-and then grumble to himself all the way up to Al’s room.
They flopped down on his messy double bed together, Arthur sitting at the foot of it so he could eat and drink without spilling, Al stretched out across the rest. He let him grumble and eat his snack in peace. When he twisted open the Newcastle with his palm and started to chug, though, he propped himself on one hand and raised his eyebrows at him. “So… you wanna talk about it?”
“Not in particular.” Which meant yes, after prodding in Arthurspeak.
Al sighed and stood up slowly, moving to his pile of clothes to find sort-of clean pajamas for Arthur, who was still in jeans. “Really now.” Arthur accepted the XXL shirt and basketball shorts, setting his half-finished beer on the floor as he changed.
“Well, if you really want to hear about it…”
“You’ tell me at some point anyway,” Al said with a shit-eating grin. Arthur scowled at him and stood up to change pants.
He finished changing and crashed face-down on the bed, groaning into the pillow. “Life sucks.” Al reached over and patted his head awkwardly.
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Arthur groaned again and rolled over, then sat up and reached for his beet again.
“The day I convince then I’m not a fucking layabout is the day that I die,” he said, and Al understood at last. He’d been at the receiving end of enough rants about how Arthur’s parents believed that because his brothers were the deadest deadbeats to ever deadbeat that Arthur was headed the same way, even though if they bothered to ask his friends they’d know it was the exact opposite. Either way, it resulted in lots of shouting and lots of Arthur storming out and crashing with Al, who lived the closest of their friends, being just down the street. Al’s parents didn’t mind as long as they didn’t get woken up by his arrival.
Al grinned at him. “You just gotta prove ‘em wrong and not give ‘em any of your money when they’re old!” Arthur tried to smile back, but it didn’t really work. Instead, he drained his beer and threw the bottle under Al’s bed and set the peel on his nightstand to rot, then flopped back face first on Al’s other pillow. Al rolled his eyes affectionately and squirmed under the covers, stretching over to turn off the lamp.
“G’night, Arthur,” he said softly. A grunt from the other side, then silence.
When he was about to nod off, he was jerked awake by an even smaller “Thank you.” He smiled in the dark.
“Sure thing, buddy.”
Throws My Spirit
Like many thing in his life, Arthur was very vocal in his disapproval of the latest spontaneous activity of his group of friends.
“This is completely improper,” he grumbled, leaning against a large tree growing on the banks of a small pond, hidden from the interstate by a narrow strip of woodland. He was turned away from the water as the five other boys stripped behind him, arms crossed tightly over his chest.
“Aw, c’mon, Artie, stop actin’ like my grandpa,” Gil jeered, chucking a handful of acorns at Arthur’s back as he carefully tucked his socks into his shoes with the other hand. Only one hit its target, but that was enough for Arthur to whip around and peg him in the forehead with a pinecone before moving around to the far side of his tree. The other boys hooted in laughter as Gil howled and clutched his forehead.
“Really, though, loosen up a bit, Art,” Alfred said, sauntering up and leaning one bare forearm above where Arthur’s head had just been, only in his flip-flops. The other four didn’t wait, wading into the pond and splashing each other with the murky pond water. “The girls aren’t here, and it’s dark anyway. It’s not like you’re gonna drown or anything.” He gave Arthur a winning smile even if he was glowering at the night-dark forest in the opposite direction. “I wouldn’t let that happen.”
When Arthur finally gave him a quizzical and skeptical look, Alfred winked. Arthur’s blush was bleached in the moonlight and shadows.
“Absolutely not,” he sniffed, turning away again. “It’s- it’s much too cold to go gallivanting about outdoors in the nude.”
Al made a face behind his back, moving his mouth in a parody of Arthur’s stiff vocabulary, then looked over his shoulder at the others. His twin brother and Gil had already started wrestling in the chest-deep water halfway to the middle of the pond, Francis and Toni cheering them on from the side.
He grinned, and Arthur didn’t see, too busy frowning at nothing; therefore, he was completely unprepared for Alfred to lift him off the ground by the waist and carry him to the water. Alfred held fast against his desperate writhing and screaming, and Arthur cursed their body differences five times over in his tumble of thoughts.
“Incoming!” Alfred yelled when he was thigh-deep, chucking Arthur a few feet further, breaking up the friendly fight with the giant, squelching splash Arthur and his clothes made. Francis fell on Toni, he was laughing so hard; Toni was too busy trying to regain his wheezing breath to fight it.
Arthur battled the water and won, standing up and breathing heavily, water streaming down his sodden clothes and streaming from his limp hair. He glared pure green fire at Alfred, who was doubled up and crouched down, only his head and neck above the water line as he cried in hysteria.
“I will kill you, your future wife, and any children who may have the misfortune of you as a father,” he said, too furious to be flustered. He slogged his way back up to the bank, kicking Alfred over on the way. “You are all dead to me.”
There were too helpless with laughter and the weight of the algae-infested water to fight Arthur’s revenge as he took off his jacket and wrung it out over their pile of clothes, then shifted through Francis’s with a wet and muddy shoe for his keys.
“I am sitting in the driver’s seat and ruining your upholstery until you assholes are finished!” he yelled back at them, stomping back to Francis’s coveted Civic and vanishing behind a Spanish moss-covered live oak, chased by their taunting laughter.
He fell off his bed and crashed onto a pile of textbooks painfully, Xbox controller ripping out of the machine, then scrambled up and peered over his bed as the second one hit. Carefully, he crawled around his bed, watching the video for a monster’s face or worse, the video game’s soundtrack not helping as his character, suddenly motionless, was pounced on by the living dead. He looked over his windowsill; nothing on the roof. He stood up a little to see the ground a story below and found Arthur standing there, arms crossed and foot tapping.
Al’s fear vanished, replaced with a grin as he opened his window. He leaned out, bracing his hands on the roof, and called quietly, “Heya, Art! What’s up?”
“Don’t yell, you’ll wake everyone,” Arthur snapped. “Let me in.”
Al laughed quietly. “Sure thing.” He left his window and turned off his Xbox, creeping down the edge of the stairs and padding through the kitchen to the back door, sliding the dead bolt to let a scowling Arthur in.
Al had seen these signs before and knew that Arthur had gotten in another stupid fight with his mother or father or one of his brothers and left. He’d steal one of his dad’s collection of beers -
“Why doesn’t your dad buy imports?”
-dig through his fruit basket for a banana-
“Your mum always buys them half green, for the love of Christ-”
-and then grumble to himself all the way up to Al’s room.
They flopped down on his messy double bed together, Arthur sitting at the foot of it so he could eat and drink without spilling, Al stretched out across the rest. He let him grumble and eat his snack in peace. When he twisted open the Newcastle with his palm and started to chug, though, he propped himself on one hand and raised his eyebrows at him. “So… you wanna talk about it?”
“Not in particular.” Which meant yes, after prodding in Arthurspeak.
Al sighed and stood up slowly, moving to his pile of clothes to find sort-of clean pajamas for Arthur, who was still in jeans. “Really now.” Arthur accepted the XXL shirt and basketball shorts, setting his half-finished beer on the floor as he changed.
“Well, if you really want to hear about it…”
“You’ tell me at some point anyway,” Al said with a shit-eating grin. Arthur scowled at him and stood up to change pants.
He finished changing and crashed face-down on the bed, groaning into the pillow. “Life sucks.” Al reached over and patted his head awkwardly.
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Arthur groaned again and rolled over, then sat up and reached for his beet again.
“The day I convince then I’m not a fucking layabout is the day that I die,” he said, and Al understood at last. He’d been at the receiving end of enough rants about how Arthur’s parents believed that because his brothers were the deadest deadbeats to ever deadbeat that Arthur was headed the same way, even though if they bothered to ask his friends they’d know it was the exact opposite. Either way, it resulted in lots of shouting and lots of Arthur storming out and crashing with Al, who lived the closest of their friends, being just down the street. Al’s parents didn’t mind as long as they didn’t get woken up by his arrival.
Al grinned at him. “You just gotta prove ‘em wrong and not give ‘em any of your money when they’re old!” Arthur tried to smile back, but it didn’t really work. Instead, he drained his beer and threw the bottle under Al’s bed and set the peel on his nightstand to rot, then flopped back face first on Al’s other pillow. Al rolled his eyes affectionately and squirmed under the covers, stretching over to turn off the lamp.
“G’night, Arthur,” he said softly. A grunt from the other side, then silence.
When he was about to nod off, he was jerked awake by an even smaller “Thank you.” He smiled in the dark.
“Sure thing, buddy.”
Throws My Spirit
Like many thing in his life, Arthur was very vocal in his disapproval of the latest spontaneous activity of his group of friends.
“This is completely improper,” he grumbled, leaning against a large tree growing on the banks of a small pond, hidden from the interstate by a narrow strip of woodland. He was turned away from the water as the five other boys stripped behind him, arms crossed tightly over his chest.
“Aw, c’mon, Artie, stop actin’ like my grandpa,” Gil jeered, chucking a handful of acorns at Arthur’s back as he carefully tucked his socks into his shoes with the other hand. Only one hit its target, but that was enough for Arthur to whip around and peg him in the forehead with a pinecone before moving around to the far side of his tree. The other boys hooted in laughter as Gil howled and clutched his forehead.
“Really, though, loosen up a bit, Art,” Alfred said, sauntering up and leaning one bare forearm above where Arthur’s head had just been, only in his flip-flops. The other four didn’t wait, wading into the pond and splashing each other with the murky pond water. “The girls aren’t here, and it’s dark anyway. It’s not like you’re gonna drown or anything.” He gave Arthur a winning smile even if he was glowering at the night-dark forest in the opposite direction. “I wouldn’t let that happen.”
When Arthur finally gave him a quizzical and skeptical look, Alfred winked. Arthur’s blush was bleached in the moonlight and shadows.
“Absolutely not,” he sniffed, turning away again. “It’s- it’s much too cold to go gallivanting about outdoors in the nude.”
Al made a face behind his back, moving his mouth in a parody of Arthur’s stiff vocabulary, then looked over his shoulder at the others. His twin brother and Gil had already started wrestling in the chest-deep water halfway to the middle of the pond, Francis and Toni cheering them on from the side.
He grinned, and Arthur didn’t see, too busy frowning at nothing; therefore, he was completely unprepared for Alfred to lift him off the ground by the waist and carry him to the water. Alfred held fast against his desperate writhing and screaming, and Arthur cursed their body differences five times over in his tumble of thoughts.
“Incoming!” Alfred yelled when he was thigh-deep, chucking Arthur a few feet further, breaking up the friendly fight with the giant, squelching splash Arthur and his clothes made. Francis fell on Toni, he was laughing so hard; Toni was too busy trying to regain his wheezing breath to fight it.
Arthur battled the water and won, standing up and breathing heavily, water streaming down his sodden clothes and streaming from his limp hair. He glared pure green fire at Alfred, who was doubled up and crouched down, only his head and neck above the water line as he cried in hysteria.
“I will kill you, your future wife, and any children who may have the misfortune of you as a father,” he said, too furious to be flustered. He slogged his way back up to the bank, kicking Alfred over on the way. “You are all dead to me.”
There were too helpless with laughter and the weight of the algae-infested water to fight Arthur’s revenge as he took off his jacket and wrung it out over their pile of clothes, then shifted through Francis’s with a wet and muddy shoe for his keys.
“I am sitting in the driver’s seat and ruining your upholstery until you assholes are finished!” he yelled back at them, stomping back to Francis’s coveted Civic and vanishing behind a Spanish moss-covered live oak, chased by their taunting laughter.