chocolate #28 - longing
Author: hi_falootin
Story: Second Chances
Prompt: Chocolate 28. longing
Rating: G
Word count: 1168
Notes: All my rodeo stories are broken up into these little bits and pieces at the moment. Anyway, this takes place shortly after Welcome to Wyoming
Mike shook his head. "Everyone has gone insane," he muttered, rising to his feet. "My own father has gone insane." Things could be better on the ranch. (But it's a little early to be feeling homesick...right?)
When it was time to put the equipment away, Jerry disappeared, leaving Mike to drag the crates of vests, gloves, and spurs across the ranch and back to the supply shed.
He stumbled over the threshold while lugging the box of spurs, and when several spilled out onto the floor he half-expected Jerry to reappear behind just to say Smooth move, ex-lax and not offer a hand.
But Jerry was nowhere to be found. Fine. Good.
It was starting to sprinkle by the time Mike closed up the shed and returned to the house. But, he decided, if Jerry was in there, he would sooner leave again and face the summer cloudburst.
Fortunately, Mike only found his father, seated at the kitchen table with a sandwich.
"Hey, kiddo," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Something wrong?"
Mike made a face. "Jerry's not here, right?"
"Nope, just me. Didn't he go into town with Peter?"
"I don't know," Mike said. He pulled out a chair, took a seat the table. "He said he was going to help put the equipment away and then vanished. Which was what he did this morning too, when it was time to carry the equipment out."
Mike's father covered his mouth; Mike couldn't tell if he was chewing or smiling. "So he's got you doing all the work."
"Right. While he sits by and thinks of new ways to insult me." Mike folded his arms, frowning down at the table. "I don't know if I can spend another day dealing with him, let alone the next few weeks. I know you said to give him a chance, but-"
"Did I say that?" Mike's dad interrupted through a mouthful of sandwich. "I thought I told you to fight him."
"Wait, what? You were serious about that?"
"Oh yeah. You should fight him." He gestured with the sandwich. "You're bigger than him, right? Well... taller at least. How much do you weigh?"
Mike stared, waiting for some indication that this was a joke. But his father was just staring back with an unnervingly earnest smile.
Mike shook his head. "Everyone has gone insane," he muttered, rising to his feet. "My own father has gone insane."
"Wait, are you going upstairs? You want a sandwich or something?"
Mike paused, one foot on the bottom step. "Maybe later," he said.
Mostly, he wanted to be alone.
* * *
He flopped down on the bed and retrieved his messenger bag from the crack between the bed and the wall. By stashing it there, he'd hoped to prevent Jerry from going through the entirety of its contents, since that seemed to be a thing with him.
Mike opened the flap and sifted through the things inside. Everything seemed to be in order-keys, pens, a weathered spiral notebook with three games of hang-man on the back cover. Paperbacks of East of Eden, In Cold Blood and from the required summer reading list, Jane Eyre. His CD player was kicking around in the bottom, headphones tangled into the typical knots. He popped it open to find a mix from Darcy inside, black block-letters on a purple CD. LOTS-OF-QUEEN MIX.
He picked up the notebook again and flopped down on the bed. Darcy had also been responsible for at least one of those hang-man games. "Gabba Gabba Hey" was a winning answer.
Less than a week now, Mike told himself, flipping open the notebook. Then Darcy would be there too and things would have to be more bearable.
He dug around in his bag until he found a pen.
July 12th, 2004
So my roommate is an asshole and Dad might be going crazy.
He tapped the pen to his chin, then added,
But I learned what a "rowel" is.
After that, he didn't feel like rehashing any more of the day. He turned to the next page, where he'd forgotten that he started a letter to Rayn.
Probably because it only went as far as Dear Rayn.
Mike made a face. He wasn't even sure about the salutation, as if there were something awkward about a stock opener that had been around for centuries. Maybe he just didn't write enough letters. The tip of his ball-point hovered over the blank first line. He wrote:
It kind of sucks here.
Then he crossed that out. You weren't supposed to start a letter by complaining. There had to be something positive to be said about the ranch, about Wyoming. He tried again:
The countryside is beautiful.
"Oh, come on," he muttered aloud, scratching that line out too. Maybe if he tried very hard he could string a gayer sounding sentence together. He looked at the two scribbled out lines. This would be a first draft. Or more realistically, a letter that would never get sent in the first place-to be later replaced with a post-card with an impulsively scribbled message that was either silly or impersonal.
He made a face and started writing.
I finished the book you lent me before we left for Wyoming. Don't have to tell you that I liked it, right? Dad had a couple of other Steinbeck books I hadn't read yet, so I picked up East of Eden for the trip. I guess I like it so far, though after Sweet Thursday, it's weird getting back into the darker and more depressing stuff. Wishing I'd brought some lighter reading. The only thing I've found in the house to read are a bunch of Louis L'amour books that don't look like they've been touched in years . So entertainment is kind of scarce. No TV anywhere on the ranch and only a couple of radio stations.
Dad's still not giving a solid answer on when we'll get back home. I think he's going to feel like we should stay and help after the big weekend, and I don't want to be the one who says no, let's just go. But if we don't make it back before you leave
He stopped writing, then dropped down to the next line and started again.
We'll make it back before you leave, but I'm not sure how much before. I know you'll be busy packing and getting your stuff together for college but I hope I get a chance to see you before you go.
"Hope" was maybe too mild.
I better get a chance to see you.
With a sigh, Mike capped the pen and let the notebook fall closed beside him. He reached for the CD player and started to pick at the knots in the headphone cord.
He'd left his other CDs in the car, so it was lucky that Darcy's mix was the one he wanted to listen to anyway. Deeming the cord sufficiently untangled, he slipped on the headphones and started the first track, which never failed to make him want to both smile and roll his eyes.
Only Darcy would start a mix of mostly Queen songs with Meat Loaf's singing Hot Patootie, Bless My Soul.
* * *
I think this is the first time (on RaTs at least) I've written a piece that involves the kind of stuff Mike writes in his notebooks. Guess it just hadn't came up yet? :O Anyway, trying to figure out how characters write is really freaking hard so the second scene of this took me much longer than it should have!
Story: Second Chances
Prompt: Chocolate 28. longing
Rating: G
Word count: 1168
Notes: All my rodeo stories are broken up into these little bits and pieces at the moment. Anyway, this takes place shortly after Welcome to Wyoming
Mike shook his head. "Everyone has gone insane," he muttered, rising to his feet. "My own father has gone insane." Things could be better on the ranch. (But it's a little early to be feeling homesick...right?)
When it was time to put the equipment away, Jerry disappeared, leaving Mike to drag the crates of vests, gloves, and spurs across the ranch and back to the supply shed.
He stumbled over the threshold while lugging the box of spurs, and when several spilled out onto the floor he half-expected Jerry to reappear behind just to say Smooth move, ex-lax and not offer a hand.
But Jerry was nowhere to be found. Fine. Good.
It was starting to sprinkle by the time Mike closed up the shed and returned to the house. But, he decided, if Jerry was in there, he would sooner leave again and face the summer cloudburst.
Fortunately, Mike only found his father, seated at the kitchen table with a sandwich.
"Hey, kiddo," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Something wrong?"
Mike made a face. "Jerry's not here, right?"
"Nope, just me. Didn't he go into town with Peter?"
"I don't know," Mike said. He pulled out a chair, took a seat the table. "He said he was going to help put the equipment away and then vanished. Which was what he did this morning too, when it was time to carry the equipment out."
Mike's father covered his mouth; Mike couldn't tell if he was chewing or smiling. "So he's got you doing all the work."
"Right. While he sits by and thinks of new ways to insult me." Mike folded his arms, frowning down at the table. "I don't know if I can spend another day dealing with him, let alone the next few weeks. I know you said to give him a chance, but-"
"Did I say that?" Mike's dad interrupted through a mouthful of sandwich. "I thought I told you to fight him."
"Wait, what? You were serious about that?"
"Oh yeah. You should fight him." He gestured with the sandwich. "You're bigger than him, right? Well... taller at least. How much do you weigh?"
Mike stared, waiting for some indication that this was a joke. But his father was just staring back with an unnervingly earnest smile.
Mike shook his head. "Everyone has gone insane," he muttered, rising to his feet. "My own father has gone insane."
"Wait, are you going upstairs? You want a sandwich or something?"
Mike paused, one foot on the bottom step. "Maybe later," he said.
Mostly, he wanted to be alone.
* * *
He flopped down on the bed and retrieved his messenger bag from the crack between the bed and the wall. By stashing it there, he'd hoped to prevent Jerry from going through the entirety of its contents, since that seemed to be a thing with him.
Mike opened the flap and sifted through the things inside. Everything seemed to be in order-keys, pens, a weathered spiral notebook with three games of hang-man on the back cover. Paperbacks of East of Eden, In Cold Blood and from the required summer reading list, Jane Eyre. His CD player was kicking around in the bottom, headphones tangled into the typical knots. He popped it open to find a mix from Darcy inside, black block-letters on a purple CD. LOTS-OF-QUEEN MIX.
He picked up the notebook again and flopped down on the bed. Darcy had also been responsible for at least one of those hang-man games. "Gabba Gabba Hey" was a winning answer.
Less than a week now, Mike told himself, flipping open the notebook. Then Darcy would be there too and things would have to be more bearable.
He dug around in his bag until he found a pen.
July 12th, 2004
So my roommate is an asshole and Dad might be going crazy.
He tapped the pen to his chin, then added,
But I learned what a "rowel" is.
After that, he didn't feel like rehashing any more of the day. He turned to the next page, where he'd forgotten that he started a letter to Rayn.
Probably because it only went as far as Dear Rayn.
Mike made a face. He wasn't even sure about the salutation, as if there were something awkward about a stock opener that had been around for centuries. Maybe he just didn't write enough letters. The tip of his ball-point hovered over the blank first line. He wrote:
It kind of sucks here.
Then he crossed that out. You weren't supposed to start a letter by complaining. There had to be something positive to be said about the ranch, about Wyoming. He tried again:
The countryside is beautiful.
"Oh, come on," he muttered aloud, scratching that line out too. Maybe if he tried very hard he could string a gayer sounding sentence together. He looked at the two scribbled out lines. This would be a first draft. Or more realistically, a letter that would never get sent in the first place-to be later replaced with a post-card with an impulsively scribbled message that was either silly or impersonal.
He made a face and started writing.
I finished the book you lent me before we left for Wyoming. Don't have to tell you that I liked it, right? Dad had a couple of other Steinbeck books I hadn't read yet, so I picked up East of Eden for the trip. I guess I like it so far, though after Sweet Thursday, it's weird getting back into the darker and more depressing stuff. Wishing I'd brought some lighter reading. The only thing I've found in the house to read are a bunch of Louis L'amour books that don't look like they've been touched in years . So entertainment is kind of scarce. No TV anywhere on the ranch and only a couple of radio stations.
Dad's still not giving a solid answer on when we'll get back home. I think he's going to feel like we should stay and help after the big weekend, and I don't want to be the one who says no, let's just go. But if we don't make it back before you leave
He stopped writing, then dropped down to the next line and started again.
We'll make it back before you leave, but I'm not sure how much before. I know you'll be busy packing and getting your stuff together for college but I hope I get a chance to see you before you go.
"Hope" was maybe too mild.
I better get a chance to see you.
With a sigh, Mike capped the pen and let the notebook fall closed beside him. He reached for the CD player and started to pick at the knots in the headphone cord.
He'd left his other CDs in the car, so it was lucky that Darcy's mix was the one he wanted to listen to anyway. Deeming the cord sufficiently untangled, he slipped on the headphones and started the first track, which never failed to make him want to both smile and roll his eyes.
Only Darcy would start a mix of mostly Queen songs with Meat Loaf's singing Hot Patootie, Bless My Soul.
* * *
I think this is the first time (on RaTs at least) I've written a piece that involves the kind of stuff Mike writes in his notebooks. Guess it just hadn't came up yet? :O Anyway, trying to figure out how characters write is really freaking hard so the second scene of this took me much longer than it should have!