12-16-2019, 06:51 AM
[table]
TIME TO DO OR DIE
Christmas. A holiday that never even mattered to Brendan up until he joined Flintlock however many years ago, when suddenly it meant the world to most people sulking around the lodge. To be quite frank, Brendan still doesn’t understand the whole point of the holiday—like, what are people even celebrating? The act of gift-giving? Can’t people give gifts any other day of the year? Why December twenty-fifth specifically? And out of all days possible, why does that have to be his birthday? Couldn’t his mom hold him in for another day, just to spare him trouble in the future?
Ugh. He’s thinking too much again. But seriously, Christmas can be such a weird holiday sometimes. Brendan read those books, about the eight-or-nine special reindeer and how they can fly. Well, Brendan’s never seen a flying reindeer. Why can Santa’s fly all of a sudden? And—who even is Santa? Why are people okay with some weird old man sliding down their chimney and giving gifts to their little kids? Brendan tries not to be too dramatic, but if somebody snuck into his home like that he’d sock ‘em; he’d make sure they’ll never want to come back. Why is he the only one that feels that way?
Perhaps the weirdest thing about Christmas, however, is that fricken tree. Trees are messy, and it shows when Brendan helps a few others haul it into the lodge. Cramming it through the front door, the fifteen-year-old cringes as various nettles and appendages flake off of the tree like dandruff on a dirty dog, showering the floor with its nature...stuff. Dirt, basically. And snow. Propping up the tree and making sure it stays standing, Brendan exhales softly, taking a step back to observe it from afar.
Despite the fact that it molted more crap than a chicken could dream of, it isn’t a shabby tree. A bit limp-y here and there, but...decent. Now here comes the hard part: decorations. He remembers that some time ago—when he was twelve or something—he wanted to find ornaments, but to no prevail. Brendan has zero clue if Flintlock happens to have any lying around, too; yeah it’s been two Christmas’ since then, however he doesn’t remember anybody going ham on the decorations since that particular year.
Great. Perfect. Brilliant. Just make this all the more difficult. Yup. Mhm. Yay. With a huff, Brendan crosses his arms, looking around, just—just in case. He thinks he needs a star, obviously the ornaments, and...he glances down at the nettles on the floor, frown tightening. A rug, too. Definitely.
Ugh. He’s thinking too much again. But seriously, Christmas can be such a weird holiday sometimes. Brendan read those books, about the eight-or-nine special reindeer and how they can fly. Well, Brendan’s never seen a flying reindeer. Why can Santa’s fly all of a sudden? And—who even is Santa? Why are people okay with some weird old man sliding down their chimney and giving gifts to their little kids? Brendan tries not to be too dramatic, but if somebody snuck into his home like that he’d sock ‘em; he’d make sure they’ll never want to come back. Why is he the only one that feels that way?
Perhaps the weirdest thing about Christmas, however, is that fricken tree. Trees are messy, and it shows when Brendan helps a few others haul it into the lodge. Cramming it through the front door, the fifteen-year-old cringes as various nettles and appendages flake off of the tree like dandruff on a dirty dog, showering the floor with its nature...stuff. Dirt, basically. And snow. Propping up the tree and making sure it stays standing, Brendan exhales softly, taking a step back to observe it from afar.
Despite the fact that it molted more crap than a chicken could dream of, it isn’t a shabby tree. A bit limp-y here and there, but...decent. Now here comes the hard part: decorations. He remembers that some time ago—when he was twelve or something—he wanted to find ornaments, but to no prevail. Brendan has zero clue if Flintlock happens to have any lying around, too; yeah it’s been two Christmas’ since then, however he doesn’t remember anybody going ham on the decorations since that particular year.
Great. Perfect. Brilliant. Just make this all the more difficult. Yup. Mhm. Yay. With a huff, Brendan crosses his arms, looking around, just—just in case. He thinks he needs a star, obviously the ornaments, and...he glances down at the nettles on the floor, frown tightening. A rug, too. Definitely.
426 WORDS.
I WILL NEVER FORGET THE MOMENT
beware hidden scroll.
