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rainbowfic2013-05-28 03:37 pm
justice_turtle) wrote in rainbowfic2013-05-28 03:37 pm
Cloud White 1, French Grey 18, Vellum 13
Name: Peter
Story: JT's Mixed Bag
Colors: Cloud White #1 (Cirrus), French Grey #18 (My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplace of existence), Vellum #13 (Marginalia)
Supplies and Styles: Miniature Collection, Fingerpainting, Stain (There are no wise few. Every aristocracy that has ever existed has behaved, in all essential points, exactly like a small mob. --GK Chesterton), Chalk (#9), Novelty Beads, Glitter
Word Count: 400
Rating: PG
Warnings: cynicism, medical/amputation squick, broken family, lack of fictionality
"Money can't buy happiness." Everyone and his brother says that. You know what money can buy? Safety. A space to be happy, to hold onto happiness, instead of scrambling for it every instant of every day.
We are the poor.
The toilet leaks because it is old. It rots through the bathroom floor and drips into the kitchen. The plumber we can afford is a liar and a hack; he wants to rip out pipes that aren't leaking. We ask a friend to check his story. Our friend does the work for free, because we are the only ones who can help each other. We are the poor.
The house is big enough for our children. Our two incomes pay the mortgage. He leaves, files for divorce, sells it. I scatter my children to live among relatives. The smallest stays with me. So does the one old enough to baby-sit. I can't afford daycare. We live in a one-bedroom apartment and dream of bringing our family back together. We are the poor.
Daddy steps on a nail. We can't afford the doctor. We refuse to go to the drug-dealer. We can't get prescription antibiotics. Daddy doesn't get tetanus; this is a civilized country. He's had his shots. Instead, he gets gangrene. The children understand that there are no birthdays, no Christmas, this year, because Daddy needs his amputation and his prosthetic. They are not angry. They are the poor.
The car breaks down. The baby has a fever, a hundred and five. The bus runs once an hour. The first one skips our block completely to make up time. The second one is late. The doctor reschedules. He can't see us till four-thirty. The last bus down is at five. Will we make it? No. It pulls away as we sprint towards it, waving and screaming. We beg a quarter off someone in the parking lot and call a friend. We are the poor.
We have no recourse. Go to law? The courthouse isn't open weekends. Only the unemployed have time to go to law, and they can't afford it. Cast a vote? The voters who matter own the plumbing company, the insurance company, the bus company, the cheap rentals. Nobody's lobbying for us.
Revolution? Go back home, pretty boy. We live two seconds from the bad side of the police. There will be no revolution.
We are the poor.
Story: JT's Mixed Bag
Colors: Cloud White #1 (Cirrus), French Grey #18 (My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplace of existence), Vellum #13 (Marginalia)
Supplies and Styles: Miniature Collection, Fingerpainting, Stain (There are no wise few. Every aristocracy that has ever existed has behaved, in all essential points, exactly like a small mob. --GK Chesterton), Chalk (#9), Novelty Beads, Glitter
Word Count: 400
Rating: PG
Warnings: cynicism, medical/amputation squick, broken family, lack of fictionality
"Money can't buy happiness." Everyone and his brother says that. You know what money can buy? Safety. A space to be happy, to hold onto happiness, instead of scrambling for it every instant of every day.
We are the poor.
The toilet leaks because it is old. It rots through the bathroom floor and drips into the kitchen. The plumber we can afford is a liar and a hack; he wants to rip out pipes that aren't leaking. We ask a friend to check his story. Our friend does the work for free, because we are the only ones who can help each other. We are the poor.
The house is big enough for our children. Our two incomes pay the mortgage. He leaves, files for divorce, sells it. I scatter my children to live among relatives. The smallest stays with me. So does the one old enough to baby-sit. I can't afford daycare. We live in a one-bedroom apartment and dream of bringing our family back together. We are the poor.
Daddy steps on a nail. We can't afford the doctor. We refuse to go to the drug-dealer. We can't get prescription antibiotics. Daddy doesn't get tetanus; this is a civilized country. He's had his shots. Instead, he gets gangrene. The children understand that there are no birthdays, no Christmas, this year, because Daddy needs his amputation and his prosthetic. They are not angry. They are the poor.
The car breaks down. The baby has a fever, a hundred and five. The bus runs once an hour. The first one skips our block completely to make up time. The second one is late. The doctor reschedules. He can't see us till four-thirty. The last bus down is at five. Will we make it? No. It pulls away as we sprint towards it, waving and screaming. We beg a quarter off someone in the parking lot and call a friend. We are the poor.
We have no recourse. Go to law? The courthouse isn't open weekends. Only the unemployed have time to go to law, and they can't afford it. Cast a vote? The voters who matter own the plumbing company, the insurance company, the bus company, the cheap rentals. Nobody's lobbying for us.
Revolution? Go back home, pretty boy. We live two seconds from the bad side of the police. There will be no revolution.
We are the poor.
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Thanks for commenting. :-)
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I sort of feel like this should be published, like, for money, because fucking word.
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(Why thank you, random icon picker... ;P)