Post by lucinda on Jun 26, 2012 22:19:41 GMT -5
"I'm leaving, Luce. I'm going out to dinner. I'll be back later. There's something in the oven for you." Luce lifted her hazel-green eyes to the face of her young uncle, her features expectant and lightly annoyed, as she'd been brought out of her book. Her fingers, small and thin, are splayed between the pages, where it is propped on her knee. She'd been reading Breakfast Of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut, and had been unusually surprised by the intense satirical words that had danced throughout the pages. She had been reading, rather casually, about the degeneration of the United States - and having been originally from Australia, she hadn't been at all offended by the words on the paper. In fact, she'd been rather amused. As the novel continued, though, she noticed the satirical content had gone from light and playful, to dark and chaotic. It was enjoyable - but now she had been disturbed by her uncle. And so she narrowed her hazel eyes at her uncle, her brown eyebrows arched perfectly. "And no boys." The words almost made her laugh. She would have boys over if she wanted too - and Ben knew it, too. He'd come in multiple times to see Johnny splayed on the floor, or Sulli on the window seat. It wasn't uncommon.
She nods her head, pushing her blonde strands of her out of her face. She was finally getting used to the color, after sixteen years of the plain brown. Sometimes, she even wished Sulli hadn't convinced her to do it. But now that she had it, she rather liked it. It almost suited her. In any case, she nodded at her uncle, who disappeared behind the wooden door, and let her hazel eyes return to the pages of the book. I thought Beatrice Keedsler had joined hands with other old-fashioned storytellers to make people believe that life had leading characters, minor characters, significant details, insignificant details, that it had lessons to be learned, tests to be passed, and a beginning, a middle, and an end. As I approached my fiftieth birthday, I had become more and more enraged and mystified by the idiot decisions made by my countrymen. And then I had come suddenly to pity them, for I understood how innocent and natural it was for them to behave so abominably, and with such abominable results: They were doing their best to live like people invented in story books. This was the reason Americans shot each other so often: It was a convenient literary device for ending short stories and books. Why were so many Americans treated by their government as though their lives were as disposable as paper facial tissues? Because that was the way authors customarily treated bit-part players in their madeup tales.
Luce felt the buzz before she heard it. It snapped her, unwillingly, out of her book again. She peered at the clock that was straddled on the small, neat, wooden desk by her bedside, and noticed that a good half-hour had already passed. Luce then, with a sigh that escaped from her throat like a moan, felt her fingers slip down beside her thigh, where her small phone was held. She picked it up, unlocking it and peering at the screen. One missed call. Who'd been calling her? She instantly thought of several people. Had she made plans today? No. With a frustrated sigh she flicked it open, peering down at the Caller ID. She shouldn't have been surprised by the name that sat there. Johnny. Luce sighed. She'd call him back later when she could be bothered. Her legs, restless from having been contained in the same position for too long, propelled her off of the bed, and she waltzed across the room with the book. She settled, beside the open window, and curled up, raising the book on her knees. Five minutes later she was completely absorbed again. And that's when the rock hit her. Not a rock, really, but a pebble. She picked it up, her ivory fingers wrapping around the gray ball, and twirled it in her fingers. Had that come through her window? Luce peered, reluctantly, out the window, and noticed Johnny, down on the lawn. She furrowed her face at him, deciding whether she should let him in or not, but she nodded her head, flicking her fingers, inviting him into her empty apartment. She would regret it later.
She nods her head, pushing her blonde strands of her out of her face. She was finally getting used to the color, after sixteen years of the plain brown. Sometimes, she even wished Sulli hadn't convinced her to do it. But now that she had it, she rather liked it. It almost suited her. In any case, she nodded at her uncle, who disappeared behind the wooden door, and let her hazel eyes return to the pages of the book. I thought Beatrice Keedsler had joined hands with other old-fashioned storytellers to make people believe that life had leading characters, minor characters, significant details, insignificant details, that it had lessons to be learned, tests to be passed, and a beginning, a middle, and an end. As I approached my fiftieth birthday, I had become more and more enraged and mystified by the idiot decisions made by my countrymen. And then I had come suddenly to pity them, for I understood how innocent and natural it was for them to behave so abominably, and with such abominable results: They were doing their best to live like people invented in story books. This was the reason Americans shot each other so often: It was a convenient literary device for ending short stories and books. Why were so many Americans treated by their government as though their lives were as disposable as paper facial tissues? Because that was the way authors customarily treated bit-part players in their madeup tales.
Luce felt the buzz before she heard it. It snapped her, unwillingly, out of her book again. She peered at the clock that was straddled on the small, neat, wooden desk by her bedside, and noticed that a good half-hour had already passed. Luce then, with a sigh that escaped from her throat like a moan, felt her fingers slip down beside her thigh, where her small phone was held. She picked it up, unlocking it and peering at the screen. One missed call. Who'd been calling her? She instantly thought of several people. Had she made plans today? No. With a frustrated sigh she flicked it open, peering down at the Caller ID. She shouldn't have been surprised by the name that sat there. Johnny. Luce sighed. She'd call him back later when she could be bothered. Her legs, restless from having been contained in the same position for too long, propelled her off of the bed, and she waltzed across the room with the book. She settled, beside the open window, and curled up, raising the book on her knees. Five minutes later she was completely absorbed again. And that's when the rock hit her. Not a rock, really, but a pebble. She picked it up, her ivory fingers wrapping around the gray ball, and twirled it in her fingers. Had that come through her window? Luce peered, reluctantly, out the window, and noticed Johnny, down on the lawn. She furrowed her face at him, deciding whether she should let him in or not, but she nodded her head, flicking her fingers, inviting him into her empty apartment. She would regret it later.
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