(Untitled)

[not_broomboy]

Grow a man, why yes you see
Plant a boy and wait
Teach him love and hate
But teach him how not what to be.

To pick a prickly peppered boy
Seasoned by the salt of sorrow
Marinate until the 'morrow
In a base of pain and joy.

A decade for the yeast to swallow
Sugar's sweet, but vinegar can clean
The wounds of life, both dull and mean

Comments

[buriedmybrother]

Antigone comes in late, looking as if she'd spent the night before in the stables.

This is not, in fact, the case-- but it very well could be.

The scent of smoke alarms her slightly, but it's only Liir (that's his name, isn't it?), and not who she'd feared it might be.

[not_broomboy]

Fear? Fear him?

That's a laugh. That. Is. Quite. A. Laugh.

What's to fear of a waif-ish young man holding an impliment of janitorial duty?

(Do you really want to know?)

[buriedmybrother]

Hey, brooms can be serious implements of violence!

Antigone leans lightly against the bar and orders coffee; she glances at him as she drinks it.

[not_broomboy]

He glances back.

"It's the broom, isn't it?"

[buriedmybrother]

A frown.

"What?"

[not_broomboy]

He shake shis head.

"Nothing."

[buriedmybrother]

The frown deepens. She's seen enough nothings to know that they are usually, in fact, something.

"If you like."

[not_broomboy]

"That's rare."

[buriedmybrother]

"What is?"

A slight quirk of her lips as she sips from her mug.

"To be left to yourself?"

[not_broomboy]

"That's common. I meant, for things to be as I like."

[buriedmybrother]

While she can relate, the attitude strikes Antigone as somehow selfish.

"Should they be?"

[not_broomboy]

"No. That never works out either."