(no subject)
This is for moony_blues , because she took my psyco plot bunny away (then skined it and boiled it and turned it into bunny surprise), but she said I had to take this bunny in exchange. I thought I got the better end of the deal 'cus this bunny just looked at me. At first. Now the bunny says, "You are a horrable person, you told her you would write me, you lied." And it won't stop LOOKING at me.
Also, this bunny doesn't like names. Don't ask me why. I tried to tell it that names are needed, but it just looked at me.
The suns were high over head, bring a kind of heat that had never managed to reach Him the inside of the prison.
It is the ruling of this board that inmate #47250's application for parole be approved.
He reveled in the sweat that ran down His back as He walked down the road.
He was free.
Well, not really free, just paroled. They thought He was to old, to weak, to broken, to be a threat any more. Whatever the reason He would embrace it.
The road climbed up a hill, from there the glory of Central City was laid out for Him to see.
“There's no place like home.”
___________________________________________________________________________________
His mind was still sharp. For twenty-five years He had counted everything, steps to the yard, hairs on His hands, bricks in His cell, so He had laughed when He saw an ad for a goodshouse in need of a bean counter.
It didn't make much money, but it was enough to get Him food and a room.
Which was what He had in prison.
The room had a window that opened on to the street, so He had fresh air and life happening in front of Him.
Which was what He had been denied in prison.
Which is what He had denied a multitude in His life before.
___________________________________________________________________________________
It was two months before He noticed the boy.
The boy was scrawny.
The boy was dirty.
The boy was stupid.
Because of these things the boy never played with the group of other children.
No, the boy just plodded through the street, digging weeds from the cracks in the sidewalk or herding bugs into makeshift pens.
___________________________________________________________________________________
It was three months before the boy noticed Him.
The boy had trudged down the steps of the far building and into the street like he always did. The boy found a line of ants carrying food back to their nest, so he crouched down to poke it.
Then the boy looked up, right into His eyes.
For nearly five minutes they stayed like that, He in his chair, the boy crouched in the street, before some big, bright, strapping manling hit the ball to hard and the others of the gaggle let out squawks that pulled His eyes away.
When He looked back the boy was gone.
___________________________________________________________________________________
“What's your name?”
The boy was back.
“What's your name?”
The boy was irritating.
“I don't have a name.” He said.
“Everybody has a name.” The boy cocked his head for a moment. “How else would people know who you are?”
“I'm nothing.” He said.
The boy opened his mouth again, “Well I'm...”
“You're nothing too.”
___________________________________________________________________________________
The boy didn't talk for a week after that.
But the boy sat.
He didn't know what had made the boy change his routine, He had been mean, said a cruel thing, but still the next day the boy had come down the stairs, picked up a stick, walked along the street, sat down next to His chair and poke at the dirt under the sill. For a week the boy just sat there next to him and poked at the dirt.
“You're right.”
He looked at the boy.
“I am nothing.”
He closed his eyes and let the suns warm his face. The boy poked the dirt.
Tell the bunny what you think (and make it stop looking at me like that).
Part Two
Also, this bunny doesn't like names. Don't ask me why. I tried to tell it that names are needed, but it just looked at me.
The suns were high over head, bring a kind of heat that had never managed to reach Him the inside of the prison.
It is the ruling of this board that inmate #47250's application for parole be approved.
He reveled in the sweat that ran down His back as He walked down the road.
He was free.
Well, not really free, just paroled. They thought He was to old, to weak, to broken, to be a threat any more. Whatever the reason He would embrace it.
The road climbed up a hill, from there the glory of Central City was laid out for Him to see.
“There's no place like home.”
___________________________________________________________________________________
His mind was still sharp. For twenty-five years He had counted everything, steps to the yard, hairs on His hands, bricks in His cell, so He had laughed when He saw an ad for a goodshouse in need of a bean counter.
It didn't make much money, but it was enough to get Him food and a room.
Which was what He had in prison.
The room had a window that opened on to the street, so He had fresh air and life happening in front of Him.
Which was what He had been denied in prison.
Which is what He had denied a multitude in His life before.
___________________________________________________________________________________
It was two months before He noticed the boy.
The boy was scrawny.
The boy was dirty.
The boy was stupid.
Because of these things the boy never played with the group of other children.
No, the boy just plodded through the street, digging weeds from the cracks in the sidewalk or herding bugs into makeshift pens.
___________________________________________________________________________________
It was three months before the boy noticed Him.
The boy had trudged down the steps of the far building and into the street like he always did. The boy found a line of ants carrying food back to their nest, so he crouched down to poke it.
Then the boy looked up, right into His eyes.
For nearly five minutes they stayed like that, He in his chair, the boy crouched in the street, before some big, bright, strapping manling hit the ball to hard and the others of the gaggle let out squawks that pulled His eyes away.
When He looked back the boy was gone.
___________________________________________________________________________________
“What's your name?”
The boy was back.
“What's your name?”
The boy was irritating.
“I don't have a name.” He said.
“Everybody has a name.” The boy cocked his head for a moment. “How else would people know who you are?”
“I'm nothing.” He said.
The boy opened his mouth again, “Well I'm...”
“You're nothing too.”
___________________________________________________________________________________
The boy didn't talk for a week after that.
But the boy sat.
He didn't know what had made the boy change his routine, He had been mean, said a cruel thing, but still the next day the boy had come down the stairs, picked up a stick, walked along the street, sat down next to His chair and poke at the dirt under the sill. For a week the boy just sat there next to him and poked at the dirt.
“You're right.”
He looked at the boy.
“I am nothing.”
He closed his eyes and let the suns warm his face. The boy poked the dirt.
Tell the bunny what you think (and make it stop looking at me like that).
Part Two