12-25-2019, 06:22 PM
[table]
TIME TO DO OR DIE
It comes as a surprise to absolutely no one that Brendan isn’t much of a foodie. Yeah, he eats, just like any other human, but that doesn’t mean he does it as frequently as he should, let alone as often as some others do. If anything, he’s still way too used to the mindset of "saving food for later" that was nailed into his brain at age one; someone else might need the food, what if a bad storm happens, he already ate this morning, yada yada yada. Unfortunately that set of stupid rules shows—he may have some muscle, but he’s also a twig. A twiggy sack of teenager muscles. A twiggy sack of sixteen-year-old muscles, in fact.
Oh yeah. He’s sixteen now.
Weird.
Anyways—food isn’t his go-to favorite thing in the world. Some certain foodies have a stroke every time Brendan acknowledges this, especially when he further emphasizes that his favorite type of food is any vegetable. Well...he can’t think of any concrete favorite anything in terms of food, but if he had to pick, then it’d be vegetables. Cake is kinda gross, the concept of cookies is weird, candy is just annoying, and fruit—wait. He likes fruit, too. Okay, so scrap all of that: his favorite kind of food is both fruits and vegetables. There. Hopefully that’s a little more accurate.
Unfortunately enough for him, there is no sign of fruit in the lodge’s Christmas dinner. Instead, there’s the supposedly "usual" turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, asparagus (yum), and...other random sweet crap he didn’t bother to look at. Slapping a decent pile of asparagus on his plate, Brendan glares at the turkey. Jeez, poor thing; it’s like a second cousin to Roosty. Stomach twisting, Brendan begrudgingly opts for a so-meek-it-shouldn’t-exist slice of ham instead.
Silverware in hand, Brendan saunters on over towards the table, shoulders sinking when he realizes just how crowded it is. More often than not some people are absent during dinner, but it seems as if everybody and their brother decided to come to this dumb thing. Not only that, but all of the tables are lined up in one singular, ginormous line; he has zero fricken clue who thought this was a good idea. Sighing, Brendan lingers in the back, only to flinch when somebody rapidly motions towards him.
"Your seat is there," they say, pointing towards a chair in the exact fricken middle of the entire stupid fricken table.
Brendan rolls his eyes. Of course. Of fricken course. Stomping towards his seat, he grabs hold of it and lifts it up, immediately making a dash for the end of the table—the empty area where they ran out of seats. Somewhat carelessly tossing it back onto the ground, he sits, setting his half-empty plate in front of him. Jeez, he can’t wait for this to be over.
Oh yeah. He’s sixteen now.
Weird.
Anyways—food isn’t his go-to favorite thing in the world. Some certain foodies have a stroke every time Brendan acknowledges this, especially when he further emphasizes that his favorite type of food is any vegetable. Well...he can’t think of any concrete favorite anything in terms of food, but if he had to pick, then it’d be vegetables. Cake is kinda gross, the concept of cookies is weird, candy is just annoying, and fruit—wait. He likes fruit, too. Okay, so scrap all of that: his favorite kind of food is both fruits and vegetables. There. Hopefully that’s a little more accurate.
Unfortunately enough for him, there is no sign of fruit in the lodge’s Christmas dinner. Instead, there’s the supposedly "usual" turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, asparagus (yum), and...other random sweet crap he didn’t bother to look at. Slapping a decent pile of asparagus on his plate, Brendan glares at the turkey. Jeez, poor thing; it’s like a second cousin to Roosty. Stomach twisting, Brendan begrudgingly opts for a so-meek-it-shouldn’t-exist slice of ham instead.
Silverware in hand, Brendan saunters on over towards the table, shoulders sinking when he realizes just how crowded it is. More often than not some people are absent during dinner, but it seems as if everybody and their brother decided to come to this dumb thing. Not only that, but all of the tables are lined up in one singular, ginormous line; he has zero fricken clue who thought this was a good idea. Sighing, Brendan lingers in the back, only to flinch when somebody rapidly motions towards him.
"Your seat is there," they say, pointing towards a chair in the exact fricken middle of the entire stupid fricken table.
Brendan rolls his eyes. Of course. Of fricken course. Stomping towards his seat, he grabs hold of it and lifts it up, immediately making a dash for the end of the table—the empty area where they ran out of seats. Somewhat carelessly tossing it back onto the ground, he sits, setting his half-empty plate in front of him. Jeez, he can’t wait for this to be over.
472 WORDS.
I WILL NEVER FORGET THE MOMENT
beware hidden scroll.
