Word #142

[katiefoolery.livejournal.com]

Here's your word for the week!

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Today's word is: miracle

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original, pg(-13?) for language, etc.

[scytheandroses.livejournal.com]

“Be a good show if he ever pokes his head in.”

Molloy grunted his assent, though he wasn’t sure whether he agreed, and if truth be known didn’t want to give a thought to it. Bruce could show or not show, for all the bugger he cared; what’d they need that mug around for, anyway? One more body. One more beer. And it wasn’t as if Bruce was all that likely to stand a round of drinks. So what’d it matter, one way or another?

“You’d think he could, at least give us a holler.” This from Royce again, who sniffled, wiped a sleeve across his face (his nose? likely that, the way his nose’d been dribbling, must have a cold), threw back an indignant swallow of his poison-pick. That was Royce. Always wondering about this one or that one’s affairs, and never happy unless he was involved. As if it were necessary he be a part of everyone’s day. Royce Drogan, ray of sunshine to sparkle through every soul’s day. Lord love you and give you solace if you didn’t get your little ray of Royce.

Ray of Royce. Molloy snorted.

“What? You think he won’t?” Look of worry for a moment as Royce questioned, and Molloy wondered where that earnest concern came from, and how it had a right to be there. Good ol’ Royce.

A shake of the head and the concern was gone, retreated to leave some vacant mulling. “You think he won’t.” Now a statement, and Ray of Royce sounded almost resigned to this, the unkind fate that is was. Bruce keeps away. Bruce doesn’t give a rat’s ass. Bruce walks in his own darkness, thank you very much (or has he found another ray somehow? perhaps Royce isn’t the only one, and if so, why, what if all the village should turn to this new, other ray, what then? tragedy for Royce).

As if Bruce ever showed up anywhere. More likely to find him sprawled out in a ditch, head-down and face soaking up the grass and leeches, bidding good morn’, good even’ to Mother Earth. Her favored son. And there he’d pass the night, mumbling to the Earth herself and herself alone. Too much a bother to make his way anywhere at all. As if he could find his way.

Meanwhile, Royce had assumed an air of resignation. Hands wrapped around the mug, eyes downcast-defensive, head wagging. “Well. Fuck him, anyway.” Flash of a smile, want to be a pal, trying it out. “Who needs him, eh, Molloy?”

Molloy decided not to answer that one.

Not his business to manufacture comfort, and not his business to play along. Kid Royce along any further. Not that Royce needed encouragement, anyway; already, he was beaming at Molloy, as if Molloy’d thrown in a chorus, a full aria of encouragement. Hearing more than had been spoken or ever intended, but that was Royce. And now Ray of Royce was gearing up for the old friendship speech, the best of pals, march to the ends of the earth, forever united and—

“’d I miss anything?”

Voice of Bruce, and then a shot of his grinning, half-filthy face. Well. Wonders and wonders.

But maybe it was a lucky thing in its own right. Because the Ray of Royce had turned to engulf its new and long-awaited target, and Molloy was free to continue with his drink.