Luck [challenge fanfic]
Jul 31, 2009 20:25:44 GMT -8
Post by ladymoondancer on Jul 31, 2009 20:25:44 GMT -8
This is the story I started for the March writing challenge . . . Still working on it, obviously. 
Luck
He was lucky. Everyone said so. Bale said so when he rescued him from the roof while lightning spiked overhead and Raspberry said it when she floated up in her old cart, using a shovel as an oar. "Hang on, sweetie!" she called as he peeped over the crown of the roof. "Don't move! Just hang on, we'll try to get closer. DON’T MOVE." As she paddled around the top of the old chestnut tree he heard her mutter, "Unbelievable . . . Lucky boy, lucky boy."
The rain stopped and the chestnut tree died and he went to live with his Aunt Tabby, who glared at him whenever he somehow ended up standing in the wreckage of a vase or plate (which he often did) and told him he was lucky she didn't skin him alive or lucky she didn't give him away to the goblins. He helped her fix the barn door, though, and weeded for long, hot hours and left her alone when she cried over the dirt mound on the hill or the smeared and wavy pages of the little black diary hidden behind the cabinet. Sometimes Aunt Tabby would stand on the crooked porch stoop and just look out over the fields of waving wheat. The longer and hotter the summer days stretched, the longer she stood there, the grey boards creaking under her even though not even her hair stirred.
One night the colt awoke to the rattle of hail off the roof and pushed open the curtains to watch it bounce and roll off the shingles. He rubbed his eyes when he saw a light outside . . . The lantern hung from its hook by the stormdoor, swaying a little, and Aunt Tabby stood staring into the darkness as the hail cascaded out of the gutter spouts to her left and right and bounced off the shingles. But the next morning when the wheat lay in a crisscrossed mat against the ground, she boiled preserves and jams with her back to the window and never said a word as sweat dripped off her nose.
That afternoon she put on her best bonnet and handed her nephew a hat box with a handle and they went to town. Hail was piled up in the ditches and everything smelled fresh and strange and new. Aunt Tabby went straight to a building squashed between the saloon and the jail, leaving her nephew outside. He tried to sneak into the saloon, but the barkeep caught him painfully by the ear and told him he was lucky he didn't throw him in jail for a stunt like that, so then he visited the jail to see what it would have been like if he had been thrown in it. But to his disappointment there wasn’t anyone in the cells and the sheriff was fat and asleep at his desk, so he wandered back into the street.
He could see his aunt through the window of the tiny building, still talking with the big pony inside, so he passed the time racing up and down the street. Paaast the saloon, the jail, the hotel, the blacksmith, and the store . . . whirl around and baaack past the store, blacksmith, hotel, jail, and saloon . . . On the third pass he screeched to a halt when he saw the store had a candy section and pressed his nose to the glass, gazing with longing at the peppermint discs, brightly swirled taffies, lemon drops, and slightly stale chocolates in crinkly wrappers.
Would Aunt Tabby give him some money? No, he knew she only had a few dusty coins in the cracked cookie jar at home. He looked back down the street and was surprised to see she was standing on the wooden sidewalk with the stallion from the building. The colt was even more surprised when the stallion passed her a small pouch. It had a lumpy look, like coins. Maybe she would give him a penny for candy after all.
Aunt Tabby seemed to feel his eyes; she turned slowly and stared down the street, meeting his gaze squarely. She stood so still, just looking at him. Then she turned slowly and walked away, the ribbons of her best bonnet drooping in the sun as the hail melted in the ditches.
The big stallion didn't walk away, though. He called "Hey, kid!" down the street. But the colt ducked into the general store and hid behind the barrels of flour and oats.
The stallion didn't come in the shop, but the foal kept hiding, just in case. The shopkeeper was a mare with a ribbon in her hair and she watched him for a while before crouching down to his level and asking some kindly questions. After she gave him a peppermint sucker that tanged in his mouth, he allowed her to lead him down the street. The big stallion was back in his tiny building. Maybe it was because he looked so cramped and tired, like a bird in a too-small cage, but he didn't seem as scary up close, not even when he peered over the edge of the desk. All the time he talked to the mare he was moving papers back and forth . . . dusty papers and faded papers and even some fresh new papers. The colt didn't understand exactly what they were talking about. Something about schedules.
Finally he looked down at the colt and said, "The next one will be tomorrow at nine sharp." Then he sat back in his chair, as if this baffling statement would make sense to the colt, and asked the mare what she thought of the weather the other day, wasn't it something?
The foal was feeling very bewildered by the time the mare led him out of the shop. She gave him more candy (lemon drops this time) and took him to her home for dinner, which turned out to be not a real home at all, but just the second floor of the store.
Luck
He was lucky. Everyone said so. Bale said so when he rescued him from the roof while lightning spiked overhead and Raspberry said it when she floated up in her old cart, using a shovel as an oar. "Hang on, sweetie!" she called as he peeped over the crown of the roof. "Don't move! Just hang on, we'll try to get closer. DON’T MOVE." As she paddled around the top of the old chestnut tree he heard her mutter, "Unbelievable . . . Lucky boy, lucky boy."
The rain stopped and the chestnut tree died and he went to live with his Aunt Tabby, who glared at him whenever he somehow ended up standing in the wreckage of a vase or plate (which he often did) and told him he was lucky she didn't skin him alive or lucky she didn't give him away to the goblins. He helped her fix the barn door, though, and weeded for long, hot hours and left her alone when she cried over the dirt mound on the hill or the smeared and wavy pages of the little black diary hidden behind the cabinet. Sometimes Aunt Tabby would stand on the crooked porch stoop and just look out over the fields of waving wheat. The longer and hotter the summer days stretched, the longer she stood there, the grey boards creaking under her even though not even her hair stirred.
One night the colt awoke to the rattle of hail off the roof and pushed open the curtains to watch it bounce and roll off the shingles. He rubbed his eyes when he saw a light outside . . . The lantern hung from its hook by the stormdoor, swaying a little, and Aunt Tabby stood staring into the darkness as the hail cascaded out of the gutter spouts to her left and right and bounced off the shingles. But the next morning when the wheat lay in a crisscrossed mat against the ground, she boiled preserves and jams with her back to the window and never said a word as sweat dripped off her nose.
That afternoon she put on her best bonnet and handed her nephew a hat box with a handle and they went to town. Hail was piled up in the ditches and everything smelled fresh and strange and new. Aunt Tabby went straight to a building squashed between the saloon and the jail, leaving her nephew outside. He tried to sneak into the saloon, but the barkeep caught him painfully by the ear and told him he was lucky he didn't throw him in jail for a stunt like that, so then he visited the jail to see what it would have been like if he had been thrown in it. But to his disappointment there wasn’t anyone in the cells and the sheriff was fat and asleep at his desk, so he wandered back into the street.
He could see his aunt through the window of the tiny building, still talking with the big pony inside, so he passed the time racing up and down the street. Paaast the saloon, the jail, the hotel, the blacksmith, and the store . . . whirl around and baaack past the store, blacksmith, hotel, jail, and saloon . . . On the third pass he screeched to a halt when he saw the store had a candy section and pressed his nose to the glass, gazing with longing at the peppermint discs, brightly swirled taffies, lemon drops, and slightly stale chocolates in crinkly wrappers.
Would Aunt Tabby give him some money? No, he knew she only had a few dusty coins in the cracked cookie jar at home. He looked back down the street and was surprised to see she was standing on the wooden sidewalk with the stallion from the building. The colt was even more surprised when the stallion passed her a small pouch. It had a lumpy look, like coins. Maybe she would give him a penny for candy after all.
Aunt Tabby seemed to feel his eyes; she turned slowly and stared down the street, meeting his gaze squarely. She stood so still, just looking at him. Then she turned slowly and walked away, the ribbons of her best bonnet drooping in the sun as the hail melted in the ditches.
The big stallion didn't walk away, though. He called "Hey, kid!" down the street. But the colt ducked into the general store and hid behind the barrels of flour and oats.
The stallion didn't come in the shop, but the foal kept hiding, just in case. The shopkeeper was a mare with a ribbon in her hair and she watched him for a while before crouching down to his level and asking some kindly questions. After she gave him a peppermint sucker that tanged in his mouth, he allowed her to lead him down the street. The big stallion was back in his tiny building. Maybe it was because he looked so cramped and tired, like a bird in a too-small cage, but he didn't seem as scary up close, not even when he peered over the edge of the desk. All the time he talked to the mare he was moving papers back and forth . . . dusty papers and faded papers and even some fresh new papers. The colt didn't understand exactly what they were talking about. Something about schedules.
Finally he looked down at the colt and said, "The next one will be tomorrow at nine sharp." Then he sat back in his chair, as if this baffling statement would make sense to the colt, and asked the mare what she thought of the weather the other day, wasn't it something?
The foal was feeling very bewildered by the time the mare led him out of the shop. She gave him more candy (lemon drops this time) and took him to her home for dinner, which turned out to be not a real home at all, but just the second floor of the store.
I like it.
Mysteries abound!