(no subject)
5/2/05 11:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
minervasoloI seem to have gone into short fic overdrive recently. I may actually start clearing up my 'lines to use' file in all this. So many snippets just lying dead, waiting for some context.
Anyway!
He was sat on the roof of the extension, staring up. His father frowned at him through the window, then opened it.
“I didn’t know you were up here,” he commented, leaning through the frame.
“Yeah. Sorry, I shoulda told you,” the boy said, gesturing at the meteor shower.
“How long’s it been going on for?”
“Few minutes,” the boy shrugged. He had his arms wrapped around his legs and his chin pillowed on his knees. By the flashes of light, his father could tell he wasn’t happy.
“Bad day at school?” he asked gently.
“Is there any other kind?”
“It’ll get better,” the elder Mr Jameson said, feeling the futility of his words. Robert had changed so drastically since they moved, and some days he felt there was nothing he could do to give him hope any more. He wasn’t being bullied, as far as his father could ascertain, and he was coping well with the work. He had a few friends, though it was obvious they weren’t close.
Maybe it was puberty. Maybe it was hormones. With any luck.
“I just wish, sometimes...” Robert trailed off and sighed heavily. “I miss being a little kid,” he said. His father nodded.
“You wish you didn't know, right? Ignorance is bliss.”
“It’s hard to appreciate something like this any more. Too much education, or something.”
Robert’s grandfather had died a few years ago. Maybe that was when the change had begun, not the move. The world was a different place when you knew how it worked. His father wondered if Copernicus or Galileo had ever wished to forget what they had learnt. No one appreciated the fact that the sun deigned to rise each morning any more.
“I understand that.”
“Yeah.”
How does one fight disillusionment? Once upon a time there had been fairy stories between them about how the washing machine was run by invisible pixies and the stars and planets were all the rings and toys and phone numbers that went up the hoover. His son was growing up. You can’t take back experience, you can’t forget knowledge.
“Are those shooting stars beautiful?” Charles Jameson asked, climbing out throwing the window as his son must have to join him. It made his knees ache, but he ignored it stubbornly.
“Well, yeah.” Robert shrugged, unimpressed by celestial splendour.
“No less beautiful because you know they're just lumps of rock burning to cinders in the atmosphere?” Charles pressed.
“Well, no.” Robert turned to look at him. Curiosity replaced that familiar stamp of misery, to his father’s pleasure.
“Do you think then, that they're any less lucky?”
“I... I guess not.”
“So make a wish.”
Father and son lay down together on the roof, and watched it rain innocence back upon them.
Anyway!
He was sat on the roof of the extension, staring up. His father frowned at him through the window, then opened it.
“I didn’t know you were up here,” he commented, leaning through the frame.
“Yeah. Sorry, I shoulda told you,” the boy said, gesturing at the meteor shower.
“How long’s it been going on for?”
“Few minutes,” the boy shrugged. He had his arms wrapped around his legs and his chin pillowed on his knees. By the flashes of light, his father could tell he wasn’t happy.
“Bad day at school?” he asked gently.
“Is there any other kind?”
“It’ll get better,” the elder Mr Jameson said, feeling the futility of his words. Robert had changed so drastically since they moved, and some days he felt there was nothing he could do to give him hope any more. He wasn’t being bullied, as far as his father could ascertain, and he was coping well with the work. He had a few friends, though it was obvious they weren’t close.
Maybe it was puberty. Maybe it was hormones. With any luck.
“I just wish, sometimes...” Robert trailed off and sighed heavily. “I miss being a little kid,” he said. His father nodded.
“You wish you didn't know, right? Ignorance is bliss.”
“It’s hard to appreciate something like this any more. Too much education, or something.”
Robert’s grandfather had died a few years ago. Maybe that was when the change had begun, not the move. The world was a different place when you knew how it worked. His father wondered if Copernicus or Galileo had ever wished to forget what they had learnt. No one appreciated the fact that the sun deigned to rise each morning any more.
“I understand that.”
“Yeah.”
How does one fight disillusionment? Once upon a time there had been fairy stories between them about how the washing machine was run by invisible pixies and the stars and planets were all the rings and toys and phone numbers that went up the hoover. His son was growing up. You can’t take back experience, you can’t forget knowledge.
“Are those shooting stars beautiful?” Charles Jameson asked, climbing out throwing the window as his son must have to join him. It made his knees ache, but he ignored it stubbornly.
“Well, yeah.” Robert shrugged, unimpressed by celestial splendour.
“No less beautiful because you know they're just lumps of rock burning to cinders in the atmosphere?” Charles pressed.
“Well, no.” Robert turned to look at him. Curiosity replaced that familiar stamp of misery, to his father’s pleasure.
“Do you think then, that they're any less lucky?”
“I... I guess not.”
“So make a wish.”
Father and son lay down together on the roof, and watched it rain innocence back upon them.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 6/2/05 01:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 6/2/05 09:21 pm (UTC)