|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Sun Oct 22, 2006 8:21 am
They had arrived at the park roughly noon time. The sun had been hidden by the grey clouds threatening to drench them, and the wind had made an attack on everything, including the clouds. It was chilly out, although neither of them found such a fact uncomfortable. The sound of the rustling leaves and the swaying grass, the swings moving with phantom riders, created a symphony, and they both seemed to enjoy it.
At a distance, the echo of children's laughter was apparent, although from their angle they could see no children. Everything in sight proved to be sparse: a swing set, a see-saw, and a jungle gym, all unoccupied. This was no deterent to the plan, Simon's plan, though. Laughter proved inhabitance, and inhabitance was all he needed.
Few encounters had seemed to grace Mortimer, but one thing had been consistant between them all: the boy never spoke a word. He alotted clicking noises, stamps of hooves, expressions, motions, but never a sound other than that of rushing air or a flick of the tounge left his mouth. It had grown to disturb Simon a little, concern him. Mortimer was at a stage in life where communication should have branched to a skeleton figure. However, no development had occured for vocality. In some cases, there was hardly communications. The child had a tendency to stare at things were he not interested or alert, as if asleep or lost in deep thought.
As an idea, Simon had figured Mortimer needed more interaction. Sitting in front of the television and watching old western films was no way for a child to grow up. Even if he were busy himself, he had volunteered for the side occupation of parent, and he needed to take responsibility. Work and study would have to wait while he nudged the child out and coerced sociality.
Giving a slight grin, Simon led Mortimer through the waving grass and beyond the swing set. There, beyond the sparce half of the park, rested the playground in all of its glory. There were slides stretching as tall as some of the small trees, and bridges of wood connecting playhouses! There were horses on springs, and a hoard of children running about carelessly, seemingly unsupervised. Of course, parents rested on the sidelines, but not an adult could be seen within the actual proximity of the playground's span. It was a Neverland, were there ever one.
"Well, there you have it." Simon spoke lightly, gently pushing Mortimer forward as if to say 'go and get 'em'.
Mortimer's hairs seemed to bristle. He gave Simon a disbelieving look. What was the man implying, bringing him to the place and shoving him forward? Was he letting him go? Oh, sweet glory, he was letting him go!
Mortimer's --- Andre's, as he continued to think himself same --- heart was racing! He was free! Free! Frantically, the boy tottered off. His cowboy hat pounded violently against his back. Everything seemed to have a rhythmic bounce to it, including the motion of his hands, one lovingly curled around a wooden pop gun he had decided to drag with him before they left. With hardly any thoughts other than that of the prospect of freedom, Mortimer made way to the playground. His tail swivled about, and his eyes wandered. What was he to do? Where was he to go now that he was no longer prisoner? Warily, he glanced over his shoulder, back at Simon, who had given him a wave.
Why was he being watched if he'd been set free? Mortimer sighed, deciding such a thing was likely false. Perhaps it wasn't freedom he was recieving? Perhaps it was just a recess? Oh, the inhumanity of it! His heart had started to sink into the murky depths of dissatisfaction. Disception hurt.
With a dissapointed expression on his face, the child turned away to observe the others running amuck. Some were running away from particular children, crying 'can't catch me!' or something of the sort. Others were crawling across the wooden bridge. Some flew down the slides. The activities seemed endless, but not a solitary one appealed to Mortimer. They were childish activities, all of which he recognized from his [first] childhood. Even then, he had taken no pleasure in sliding down a slide. Blinking, Mortimer found himself suffering an epiphany. That was what Simon was doing! What his mother had done! He was... Taking him to play? An amused smile crossed his face. Simon had taken him out to the playground to let him play. How absurd.
Mortimer shook his head to himself, making the motions of shoulder shaking laughter, but disallowing sound. He shut his eyes, inhaled deep breaths. It was recess time, but there was nothing to do! Nothing that would potentially enthrall hi-- The satyric creature's eyes grew wide. Before they'd left, he'd been watching some movie where the lead character had held up a bank... Involuntarily, his hands had dragged his hat up and set it on his head. Mortimer then fixed his pop gun and permitted his tail dance about the ground. That would be his game to take his mind off of troublesome things. He had all the tools he needed! He had his outlaw identity. He had his gun. The only remaining item he needed was a victim!
The smile on his face had grown incredibly wide, a rush flowing through his body. With little hesitation, he began to totter about. His hooves made a light noise, as did his tail as it brushed the ground. A song was drumming up. A song of the western film! The tune proved itself solo for the time, but, with patience, he would find his partner and have his duet. He just needed to locate the perfect specimen for holding up... Then the music would play with flawless fullness.
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Oct 22, 2006 10:30 pm
"You know what, runt? I think you got shipped off here because you're too much of a loner." Irlan declared, thumbs in his pants pockets. "And I ain't saying being quiet is a bad thing, Corsae knows you let me sleep as much as I normally do. But come on, it's ******** creepy that you're so... oh what's that word that begins with an S but is synonimous to being a doormat?"
"Submissive." Malas replied, her body may be that of a toddler's but that didn't mean her vocabulary was. She knew how to dress herself, except when it came to putting pants on. Back on her home planet, she never wore pants. Frell, no one did. Except the D'lawans, but they were freaks so they didn't count. It humiliated her that she needed Irlan's help to get into these horribly snug things. Why couldn't she just wear those skirts that her cousins wore?
"Because girls wearing skirts are sissies!" Irlan had grinned, "I already know you're one, but why let the rest of the world know?"
Did he really mean well? Or did he just like seeing Malas uncomfortable? Or was it his own brand of tough love? If the man was capable of love that is.
"Where we go?" She asked, violet fingers clenched tightly around a portion of Irlan's pant leg.
"A place where you brats are allowed to make all the noise you want and act like the savage little creatures you are. The park!" he grinned.
Furrowing her brows, 'Las resisted the urge to give her guardian a swift kick to his shins. But knowing Irlan, he'd be able to dodge it in time and then he'd laugh at her. Much like her own experience back on her home planet. Wherever she went it seemed she was inadequate. Oh why didn't they just end her misery?
"Well, here we are. Go on, find some brat, play with him, get sweaty, do whatever it is you kids do." He nudged the toddler with end of his shoe. Shaking his leg to free himself from 'Las's vice-like grip on his pant leg.
Malas stared up at him in horror as if he was throwing her into a tank of sharks. No! No! He couldn't, could he? There were so many of them, all of them with two legs, like the D'lawans. Oh Grahd, whatdoidowhatdoido!?
She felt herself being lifted by the back of her shirt, and suddenly she was sailing in the air. Her body tensed as she braced herself for impact. Only to feel a jerking sensation once more on the back of her shirt. "Corsae's horns, what the ******** is WRONG with you? You're supposed to scream or cry or shriek. Not stiffen up like some ******** stick. You really are a freak." And with that, he lowers her gently onto the ground. "I'll be over there, wondering just what the ******** I can do to make you less freaky."
And with that Malas was left alone.
Amidst all these children. All these two-legged, D'lawan-like children. And for some reason, all Malas could do was sit down and stare like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Oct 23, 2006 3:08 pm
To the left, nothing. To the right, nothing., Mortimer thought to himself. His eyes were wandering like the beam of light from a light house, and, like a security camera, he scruitinized everything.In one direction, there were a group of four young girls doing something he could not particularly make out. They were turning in circles and chanting an unfamiliar tune, something about posies and ashes. It didn't sound like a very cheerful song. At the very least, it reminded him of brutal, tragic death, which wasn't the sort of thing he desired to dwell on. It was what he was running from for the day. He felt his sanity diminishing. Would it ever simply stop? Perhaps if solitude were no longer his emblem...
The wry smile became inverted as he quickly turned his head away. His hat had seemed to flip off of his scalp, but, impulsively, he resituated it upon his head, carefully working it about the ram horns that made it an awkward fit. In the end, the hat had twisted further to the left than to the right, covering one horn entirely and hanging a bit like something stuck on a coat rack. It was a sloppy hilarity.
With his hat 'properly' in place, Mortimer continued on his way. He found a group of rowdy young boys, far older than him and tossing a ball around. In another direction, there was a more co-ed group, resting near what appeared to be a base for capture the flag. In vexation, Mortimer began to shake his head. None of the inhabitents seemed to intrigue him! His fingers were getting restless. His throat was getting dry! The temptation, the desire, to do something... Wrong? ... It was there!
Like a two-peg legged pirate, he danced around in a circle until he finally spun around to resurvey the playground a second time. With hardly any effort, something particular caught his eyes. It was a young individual, sitting alone. To Mortimer, that screamed ideal. On Ericous, Gabriel had started him off in such a manner. They had hidden on paths and watched for lone travelers! Then, like savages, they had scurried forward on all their legs, screaming and roaring while waving swords, knives, or whatever had been of fancy! It had been a way of life to live, and he was perfectly grateful he had been offered it. Even though Gabriel was on a sour note, he was grateful for his lessons, and his attentions. The smile had returned to his face full blow as he discovered his target: a child of green hair and what he could decipher as a pink complexion. He would not lie, the color struck his fancy, but not even the color was enough to change his mind and force him into pity. His trigger finger was aching to be used, and his brain was working in its complex way. Outlawdom had done him harm, but he found the opportunity, and inspiration, to return to it beautiful. He had ignored it well enough for his time on the mud ball of a planet, and it was inevitable for its resurface. It was his life. It was his soul, and his only idea sure to bring about his perfect contentment.
Amelia would have wanted him to take the chance and fulfill his life from time to time! Though he longed for something greater for her honor, for his punishment, he knew that she would never have approved of his surrendering his ways. She had loved him as an outlaw, and that had been that.
With her name in mind, Mortimer felt a distinct sensation. It was a shiver down his spine, a weakness in his legs. Wearily, he licked his lips, pursed them, and permitted a popping noise. Amelia. His sweet belle. For her he would do well for one day. For her he would live in his manner one day. Passing up his moment would be a disgrace on her spirit! Simon had done him a favor in attempting true parenthood. Even with the man's observations, there was no restriction on a playground. It was the moment. He had to take it before his mind turned to darkened insanity, anarchy.
Like a vulture, Mortimer circled around at a distance. His hat had been tipped in an attempt to hide his eyes as he surveyed further. Each step brought about a quicker swish of the tail, a slightly heavier and needy breath. Steady. Steady., he thought to himself as he circled. Finally, he came to the back view. With quickness and practiced grace, Mortimer fixed the cork in the pop gun and prepared it for fire. His hands moved nimbly, habitually. It was so similar to the motions of a life time factory worker, second nature.
When such a mundane activity had been completed, Mortimer set off. He moved slow at first, but the pace soon quickened. His stubby legs carried him as fast as they would, and, within a few feet from his singled out target, the pop gun had been lifted up so to be pointed firmly at the being. Unfortunately, the twig-legs betrayed him, and his balance was off shot. Mortimer fell to the ground behind Malas, gave a loud Umph. The gun, however, remained glued to his hand, and, determinedly, he had attempted to point it and give a look of 'this is a stick-up!'
Needless to say, his look proved weak. Having knocked himself nearly out of breath had not done a service for his intimidation factor. Regardless, he kept the pop gun pointed and stared, the hat having flown back and off of his head, only the string having held it to his figure. He was a filthy mess with his fall, the white shirt forced dusted and tainted by grass, and his hair thrown about in a few directions. Such a gentleman he seemed, all dirty!
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 24, 2006 8:01 am
Malas, was, quite frankly mortified to find herself in this situation. Well, she would be mortified if the feeling was not all too familiar. The other children had seen her (who wouldn't given her guardian's none-too-gentle means of depositing her in this hellish situation), and as quickly as they laid their eyes on her, they turned their backs.
Typical.
Why was she not surprised?
She wasn't expecting any of the other two-legged younglings to come up to her and ask her to play with them. No one ever did, especially back at the orphanage. Then again, there was little time for play, or so then-Knot remembered. She was always stuck with the chores no one else wanted, tasks being dumped onto her as if she wanted them in the first place.
She did want them, didn't she? She had to have felt some reason why she just took it all in stride and smiled as the other children left her to go outside. Her ventures beyond the orphanage's doors were rare, and far in between, she almost thought they never happened.
Malas' recent encounter with her cousins, when they asked her why she didn't know what "play" was, it made Malas feel all the more inadequate. So play was one of the most basic things a child knew was it? And yet, why has she not known about it until that day? Her face remained unreadable, though inside it was wrenched in anguish and tears were clawing at her eyes for release.
But no, she kept her feelings in check, and hugged her knees to her chest. And she remained seated firmly on the soft, sandy ground, silver-blue-eyes watching the little freaks toddle back and forth on those metal contraptions that seemed to bring them much joy. Her thoughts were interrupted when she noticed she was being surveyed. Not by Irlan, he rarely paid attention to her, not that she minded.
There was another child, a hat resting atop his head. And he was circling her. In these situations, Knot would have drained him dry of the things that made him happy, or sad. She'd have sucked him of all the things that validated his emotions, his actions, his very being. The only trait she had possesed that could possibly merit her existence.
But she didn't, did she? She was stuck in this pudgy, ill-fitting, disgusting two-legged child. It frustrated her, to say the least. She'd let him approach her, her face a blank canvas, eyes betraying nothing. She didn't show him she was even remotely aware of his presence.
Until, that is, her long ears picked up the sound of a falling object behind her. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw Mortimer, and the popgurn aimed at her. The look in her eyes changed, and she showed him just what she thought about the situation.
She was not impressed.
Her lips were curved in a contemptuous frown, "If you wanna shoot, then shoot." She snapped. She didn't know what a popgun was, or why anyone would let someone so small weild a weapon. But if this meant death, then so be it. She didn't fear death, not in the least.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 24, 2006 8:43 am
It was a small, wrenching pain coursing through his body. He found it utterly wrong. The fall had been an accident, nothing he would have ever allowed to happen. Yet, he had allowed it to happen. He had fallen over with clumsy grace. Whether it was the fault of his stubby legs attempting to run or another concept was not something he knew. All he knew was that he had messed up. He had fallen over in the midst of doing something so simple!
The embaressment had taken control of his face via a coup de tat on the confidence. The pale cheeks had flushed a bright red color, and the eyes had been cast downward at the ground as he tried to lift himself up and keep the gun situated. He had no real desire to fire it, but his mind told him it was intimidating. In truth, it had not seemed to work at all, as Malas' expressions suggested.
Mortimer was too proud to quit, though! He straightened himself a little, pursed and licked his lips. The breathing seemed his only noise. There wasn't even the hinting a voice, the presence of uniqueness in tone. His breathing sounded precisely like what it was: inhaling and exhaling air. It was a bit like a ballon, taking in air, and then letting it our, minus a whistle or a ridiculous sound. Despite such a fact, there was a glimmer of self in his breathing. The way it staggered, or the way it moved faster, then slower. It was almost a dialect of breathing, suggesting things such a self beration, eagerness, whatever one could possibly conjure from the pace or nature of it. The looks his face adorned only contributed to his 'dialect', if one were to call it that. Occasionally, his eyebrows would furrow, then unfurrow. His eyes would squint, then unsquint, and his mouth had a tendency to move, create a frown or a smile, or to pucker and unpucker.
From the acquaintence point of view, it was a fine thing to see. It at least portrayed and attempt at communication, even if it were not rightfully true. There was a change in such behavior! Mortimer was much more animated than he had been within the recent days, and that would have pleased any acquaintence who may have been concerned. From the nonacquaintence point of view, there was no telling what the thought was. If his clicking and pops had not been strange, the expressionate change and breathing certainly was.
After much dealing with his fall, Mortimer had straightened enough to feel comfortable. He had gone so far as to sit himself up, though he had not bothered to fix his hat, his 'outlaw identity', as he commonly refered to it within his mind. The pop gun had remained pointed as he permitted the round blue eyes flicker upward to observe the individual he had targeted. What he would was peculiar, and, needless to say, dissapointing.
There rested the face of the unimpression, lack of any sort of caring over the situation. He didn't know what to do with such a person! He'd never encounter one, with the exception of his own sort, who, even so, had not been the bravest of men, or the most willing to accept fate. In present times, he found death inviting, but that was irrelevent, and did not help him. How did one deal with a person not overwhelmed by an attack?
Malas' words played like part of a broken record. Mortimer's tail brushed the ground a little, and he shifted to sit in a more comfortable position. His legs were set in front of him, the knees bent and hooves knocked forward. One hand was set on the ground for balance's sake. All the while, he continued to watch, continued to think. The bewildered look to his face was apparent.
With a great heave of a breath, he shook his head to himself and pointed the pop gun up at the air. His fingers twitched, and, in a frenzy, a low volume pop echoed throughout a small proximity of the park. A tan cork fluttered into the air, a string attached to one end of it, and to the gun. Within seconds, the cork had returned to the gun, but not inside. It landed in the air and dangled like a cat toy, revealing all that the gun truely was: a toy.
Mortimer didn't bother fixing it after the firing, nor did he bother getting up to move away. Perhaps he was stunned by her statement, or perhaps he was simply too sore to get up. Rather than moving, he remained seated, remained breathing, staring. His mouth seemed to move as if he wanted to say something, but he said nothing at all. In that, a shred of self frustration could be seen.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Oct 26, 2006 11:25 pm
Malas was neither amused, nor relieved to find the gun had been a toy. Fact of the matter is, the moment Mortimer righted himself to a seated position, her attention was drawn to his hooves? He didn't seem to have the two-humanoid legs the rest of the children seemed to posses. Her eyes seemed focused, almost fixated on his lower legs.
Even the pop of the gun didn't register in her mind. It was too busy pondering the possibilities that she finally found someone who was remotely normal.
"You no human?" she asked him with a, dare she thinks, hopeful tone.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 31, 2006 1:35 pm
The toy gun was graciously set upon the ground next to the boy. He moved his hand away from it, giving a reluctant twitch of the fingers. It was certainly apparent that he had not wanted to let it go. Why he had was a mystery, but something had told him to just put it down for the moment.
With ease, he removed his hat and held it in his hands. The gesture had seemed almost random before he tipped it and set it back on his head. The awkward position of it resumed. It was an unstable crown atop his head, bound to fall off with too quick a movement.
Malas' comment had not been unheard. Mortimer's hooves had seemed to shift, as if wanting to tap out a code, although he knew no code to go by, or that would be understood. To that, he lamented, but only for a fleeting moment. His tail beat the ground rhythmically; he seemed to smile a satisfied smile, as if the statement were something utterly welcome. A nod of his head was given before he permitted his eyes be cast up towards the girl. He certainly was no human!
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Nov 01, 2006 1:03 am
What the frell was that? Malas thinks, watching Mortimer's movements in mild interest. Naturally she wasn't showing even the slightest hint of emotion, it always served her best to hide her feelings. Even back when she was in her home planet to show emotion was tantamount to showing weakness. And she was weak, and useless and a failure in all essence of the word.
So here she was, stuck in a horridly ugly little body, treated like some infantile creature by her brute of a guardian. Most of the younglings she's met all seem to possess two legs. Why that was, Malas didn't understand and for all intents and purposes, she really didn't care.
"You no talk?" she continued to verbally prod, clarifying whether the hooved child was truly incapable of speech or was just ignoring her.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Nov 27, 2006 3:42 am
[Sorry for the wait! D: My brain started flip-flopping early in November after I got sick and I kept forgetting things or fallin' asleep. -mrrrs- ]
There was a long moment of quietness as Mortimer thought to himself, asking questions or commenting on his own lack of abilities. It always seemed to spoil things - although his original activity had already been ruined by awe and an unwillingness to continue with the robbery. How soft he had grown!
The satyric child had continued to star at Malas, eyes suddenly dull and difficult - blank and sleepy like. All at once they clicked to life again and he looked down to find his shaggy lower legs. His mouth was opened and a breath of air sent forth as he attempted a word. There was rushing air and something that sounded like a cracking yawn. Frustrated, he wrinkled his eyebrows and stamped one hoof on the ground. He licked his lips - the familiar rising. Without any effort, he pursed his lips and made the obnoxious popping noise that had been his way of communication for as long of the new life as he could remember; then he firmly nodded in response to her question regarding his speech.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Nov 27, 2006 7:10 pm
((no worries n.n))
The emerald-haired child didn't quite know how to react to the hooved boy's revelation. He couldn't talk? So was it a birth defect, then? Part of her hoped he was like her, an adult trapped in some infantile body. But what were the chances?
"Can write?" she continued, not moving any closer to him, her fingers iddly tracing letters in the sand.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Dec 02, 2006 11:47 am
Mortimer allowed another pop to flow through the air about the two of them, followed by the clicking of his tounge. It seemed so habitual, and whether or not it meant anything was for anyone to guess - although they would certainly be extending concepts. While he made such noise he thought of nothing in particular, simply words, though there was no attempt for communication all the while.
It wasn't until he noticed Malas drawing letters that he gave another nod of his head. Warily, he permitted his pointer finger to shoot forward towards the sand to write a little. Unfortunately, his lettering looked far different than what one might of expected - akin to symbols, shapes, as opposed to letters. However, it wasn't long until he caught himself and smoothed out the symbols, began to rewrite, shakily. This time, he manage to get it right, although his spelling of words was atrocious!
Etched in the sand was none other than the letters "Yis I can Rite", a direct spin of the sentence 'Yes, I can write'. He smiled with pride at the realization that translation to the planet's eerie letter system had proven simple for him. All of his occasional wanderings and observations had been paying off, so it seemed.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Jan 19, 2007 7:33 pm
Malas peered at the letters, before remembering that she couldn't read most Gaian letters yet. She had doodled little more than the vowels that she knew, and those were the only things she recognized. It didn't help much that she now had no idea how to communicate with this satyr-like toddler.
An idea formed itself in her mind as she clutched the six-legged doll close to her chest. "I Malas and I no read good. I dunno what call you, so can it be Etch?" she asked. "Shake head no, nod yes." she demonstrated her words, moving her head side to side to mean "No", up and down to mean "Yes".
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Jan 25, 2007 7:12 pm
The young boy seemed dazed by the comment and directions of which were given to him. With an awkward look, he idly pulled at the string of which held his hat to him. It was not that he did not understand her inquiry - but more so that the very idea of being called something such as Etch. Etch sounded like a terrible name for the sidekick in an old, poorly done western drama. Even he had standards for titles! He was Andre Rolenti. He was a Lone Outlaw - no Sidekick!
Or was he? He seemed to grimace, two worlds colliding together. Outlawdom and independence - laid back, casual. Finally, Mortimer gave Malas a stern look, as if to declare there was only one thing of which he would allow anyone to call him ... And with that he nodded his head. Etch for the girl he couldn't stand to shoot - and no one else.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Jan 28, 2007 9:49 pm
Malas returned the nod and scooted closer; she knew how to address him now, that should make interaction easier. The pig-tailed girl held out her stuffed toy to Mortimer, "Etch wanna see Squbb?" she asked. After all, if he had shown her his toy gun, protocol dictates that she do the same.
"Squbb no funny sounds. Just soft." she explained, apologizing for her toy's lack of interesting qualities.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Feb 25, 2007 10:34 pm
Mortimer had been a little wary of the idea of closeness. It was something he scarcely wanted from Simon - though he held a general disdain for the man. He was a nightmare a creature for him to deal with. With a careful thought, he supposed the girl was nothing like Simon, but that had not changed the sheepishness over the fact that she had moved closer.
Swallowing, he had looked toward the ground. After gathering his composure, he had returned to his direct gaze and given a firm nod. All at once, the boy had seemed to give a loose smile. It was not something he did often. In fact, he could not recall a smile since the day he had first arrived to live with Simon. It felt fantastic. He felt his spirits rise. He felt at peace for a moment. At least he had accomplished something during his attempt to get back into the swing of who he chose to be.
Displaying a bit of confusion, Mortimer had grasped his toy gun. With the same great care as always, he had held the barrel and pointed the blunt end towards Malas, as if suggesting she take hold and look at it in return for his seeing her stuffed toy. The action had potential of being misconstrued for the idea of a trade, though by the look on his face it was apparent he would never trade the gun.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Reply
