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rainbowfic2016-07-08 10:14 pm
bookblather) wrote in rainbowfic2016-07-08 10:14 pm
First Light 16, Blue Caravan 10, Color Party 42: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Author: Kat
Title: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Story: Shine Like It Does
Colors: First light 16 (Curiosa), blue caravan 10 (And the words, they're everything and nothing), color party 42 (Flammeous)
Supplies and Materials: canvas (Smokey is about sixteen, and Miranda may or may not be just barely born), seed beads, acrylic (false), stain ("It’s all fucking crap. We’re all human beings, we’re all mammals, we’re all rocks, plants, rivers." - Shane MacGowan), modeling clay (Free-Form Friday), novelty beads ("The Boss of Me," They Might Be Giants), graffiti
Word Count: 739
Rating: PG
Summary: Smokey has a conversation about gender with a ten-year-old, because of course he does.
Warnings: homophobic slur
Notes: Uh, hi, I'm back? Smokey's gender, sexuality, and indeed entire existence can best be expressed as the title emoji. He uses male pronouns because it's easier but he'll answer to anything.
It was not, as it happened, the only gas station on a long, dusty road, with nothing in sight for miles. It should have been, to suit Smokey's mood, but it was not: the road was very busy with cars honking and exhaust painting his throat, and the gas station whose outer wall he leaned against was just the last thing on a long block before the street rounded off another one. The sun was beating down, at least. Smokey tipped his chin back to expose his neck to the light.
He loved being warm. Grandmama always said he had to be part lizard, a desert iguana with a long striped tail. His skin was the same cool brown as the top of an iguana's head, anyway, so maybe he was. Maybe his father had been a iguana in human skin. Or maybe his father was a billow of smoke instead, a rolling puff of carbon and ash caught high in the wind. Maybe Mom inhaled some of it, or swallowed some, and that puff of smoke sank down in her belly and blew it outward and then Smokey was born, the last remnants of a dying fire.
He did know how the reproductive system worked. Learned in school and everything. But he liked thinking of alternatives. He liked everything alternative. He contemplated tucking his hat down over his eyes and taking a nap in the broiling sun while the traffic growled its way along the street.
He might have, but for a foot that kicked his, almost friendly. Smokey opened one eye, and then another, and gave the kicker (a child about ten) a polite, inquisitive look. "Yes?"
"Are you a boy or a girl?" the child demanded.
Smokey gave that some consideration. "I'm a me," he said, at last.
"Yes, but are you a boy or a girl?" The child gestured at his skirt, loose over his knees, at his shoulder-length hair (neon-green at the tips, but he was thinking of going short and blue), at the cowboy hat he wore and the glittery sneakers. "You look like a boy but you're wearing girls' clothes."
"Only the skirt," Smokey said. "I borrowed that from Mom. But the rest of the clothes are mine." Not that he didn't have skirts, he just didn't have any that went with the shoes. Next Goodwill trip.
"But they're girl clothes," the child repeated.
"No," Smokey said. "I bought them, they're my clothes. Anyway, why are you asking?"
The child didn't appear to find this worthy of answering, or perhaps didn't know the answer, because the only thing he got was, "Dad says you're a faggot."
Ah. He sighed. This again.
"Dad says," the child went on, insistently, "that boys who wear skirts are faggots. So are you a boy or a girl? Because if you're a boy then you're a faggot, Dad says."
"That's a mean word for somebody who's gay," Smokey said. "And I'm not gay. Why's your dad care anyway? I don't know him."
The child stopped, apparently taken aback by that. "I dunno. Don't you have to care?"
"Not really," he said, scratching at the back of his neck, which was itching. "Grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter if boys wear skirts. And they're comfortable when it's hot like this." Especially when he wore boxers under them. Chafing wasn't fun.
"Huh," the child said. "Dad says that's what's destroying America."
Smokey raised both his eyebrows. "Boys in skirts? Really?"
"Yeah." The child looked down, and kicked a shoe along the curb, scuffing the toe. "It sounds kinda stupid when you say it."
"Probably 'cause it is," Smokey said.
He would have said more, but a burly man came out of the gas station just then, the doors swinging open on a blast of air conditioning, a six-pack in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. He hollered something at the child, who said, "Coming, Dad," and asked Smokey again, "So, boy or girl?"
"Either," he said. "Both. Whatever you want. I'm a me and that's how I like it."
"Okay," said the child, and went after the burly man. Smokey watched the pair clamber into a beat-up old sedan and drive off, trailing exhaust, into the wavering heat. Then he leaned back, tipped his hat forward over his eyes, and settled in for a nap.
He met the most interesting people at gas stations.
Title: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Story: Shine Like It Does
Colors: First light 16 (Curiosa), blue caravan 10 (And the words, they're everything and nothing), color party 42 (Flammeous)
Supplies and Materials: canvas (Smokey is about sixteen, and Miranda may or may not be just barely born), seed beads, acrylic (false), stain ("It’s all fucking crap. We’re all human beings, we’re all mammals, we’re all rocks, plants, rivers." - Shane MacGowan), modeling clay (Free-Form Friday), novelty beads ("The Boss of Me," They Might Be Giants), graffiti
Word Count: 739
Rating: PG
Summary: Smokey has a conversation about gender with a ten-year-old, because of course he does.
Warnings: homophobic slur
Notes: Uh, hi, I'm back? Smokey's gender, sexuality, and indeed entire existence can best be expressed as the title emoji. He uses male pronouns because it's easier but he'll answer to anything.
It was not, as it happened, the only gas station on a long, dusty road, with nothing in sight for miles. It should have been, to suit Smokey's mood, but it was not: the road was very busy with cars honking and exhaust painting his throat, and the gas station whose outer wall he leaned against was just the last thing on a long block before the street rounded off another one. The sun was beating down, at least. Smokey tipped his chin back to expose his neck to the light.
He loved being warm. Grandmama always said he had to be part lizard, a desert iguana with a long striped tail. His skin was the same cool brown as the top of an iguana's head, anyway, so maybe he was. Maybe his father had been a iguana in human skin. Or maybe his father was a billow of smoke instead, a rolling puff of carbon and ash caught high in the wind. Maybe Mom inhaled some of it, or swallowed some, and that puff of smoke sank down in her belly and blew it outward and then Smokey was born, the last remnants of a dying fire.
He did know how the reproductive system worked. Learned in school and everything. But he liked thinking of alternatives. He liked everything alternative. He contemplated tucking his hat down over his eyes and taking a nap in the broiling sun while the traffic growled its way along the street.
He might have, but for a foot that kicked his, almost friendly. Smokey opened one eye, and then another, and gave the kicker (a child about ten) a polite, inquisitive look. "Yes?"
"Are you a boy or a girl?" the child demanded.
Smokey gave that some consideration. "I'm a me," he said, at last.
"Yes, but are you a boy or a girl?" The child gestured at his skirt, loose over his knees, at his shoulder-length hair (neon-green at the tips, but he was thinking of going short and blue), at the cowboy hat he wore and the glittery sneakers. "You look like a boy but you're wearing girls' clothes."
"Only the skirt," Smokey said. "I borrowed that from Mom. But the rest of the clothes are mine." Not that he didn't have skirts, he just didn't have any that went with the shoes. Next Goodwill trip.
"But they're girl clothes," the child repeated.
"No," Smokey said. "I bought them, they're my clothes. Anyway, why are you asking?"
The child didn't appear to find this worthy of answering, or perhaps didn't know the answer, because the only thing he got was, "Dad says you're a faggot."
Ah. He sighed. This again.
"Dad says," the child went on, insistently, "that boys who wear skirts are faggots. So are you a boy or a girl? Because if you're a boy then you're a faggot, Dad says."
"That's a mean word for somebody who's gay," Smokey said. "And I'm not gay. Why's your dad care anyway? I don't know him."
The child stopped, apparently taken aback by that. "I dunno. Don't you have to care?"
"Not really," he said, scratching at the back of his neck, which was itching. "Grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter if boys wear skirts. And they're comfortable when it's hot like this." Especially when he wore boxers under them. Chafing wasn't fun.
"Huh," the child said. "Dad says that's what's destroying America."
Smokey raised both his eyebrows. "Boys in skirts? Really?"
"Yeah." The child looked down, and kicked a shoe along the curb, scuffing the toe. "It sounds kinda stupid when you say it."
"Probably 'cause it is," Smokey said.
He would have said more, but a burly man came out of the gas station just then, the doors swinging open on a blast of air conditioning, a six-pack in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. He hollered something at the child, who said, "Coming, Dad," and asked Smokey again, "So, boy or girl?"
"Either," he said. "Both. Whatever you want. I'm a me and that's how I like it."
"Okay," said the child, and went after the burly man. Smokey watched the pair clamber into a beat-up old sedan and drive off, trailing exhaust, into the wavering heat. Then he leaned back, tipped his hat forward over his eyes, and settled in for a nap.
He met the most interesting people at gas stations.
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Thanks for reading!
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MORE APROPOS DID I MENTION I LOVE THIS.
The alternatives and destroying America and the shoes and yes and thank you!
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Thank you!
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Your story is awesome, though. Have you posted a lot of other stuff with Smokey? I'm still trying to figure out the tags and labels on this comm...
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