literature

Mornings

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Literature Text

Waking up in a chair, the young father (really, was he still so young when he was thirty years of age?), looked to the bed in front of him. Empty. He shouldn’t have been surprised, if he thought about it, and got up to the cracking of his joints, stiff from his seated sleep.

Blinking away the dreams from his eyes, he reached into his breast-pocket for a pair of glasses. Finding none, he simply grumbled quietly to himself about misplacing the pair of spectacles. Again. Stretching his arms up beyond his head where the messy ponytail sat high, he shook his head as he yawned. This would be a good morning. Despite it being Friday.

Checking his watch for a moment, he read the analog face quickly; 6:45. Dawn was peeking at him from through the blinds in the child’s room, the walls painted with various depictions of the sun throughout the day. A wonderful mural, but one that he was just as certain the young two and half year old would not be able to understand. Walking over to the window, he hesitated before pulling the blinds and shielded his eyes from the orange-peach of the sky. This window was not facing east, thankfully.

Leaving the boy’s room, he made his way towards his own room, once again unsurprised to find the door slightly ajar. He poked his head in briefly before closing the door gently; his beloved wife was sleeping with their two boys and another on the way. The younger boy had his mouth wide open as he slumbered, and his older brother had a red flush across his cheeks. Stupid boy. He was sick with fever, and still he wanted to sleep with his mother instead of resting in his own room. As if the woman herself was able to heal him with her presence. What a notion.

Making his way to the third room, he had to admit he was surprised when their adopted boy said he wanted his room to be filled with clouds. Another masterpiece in itself, but whether the beauty of it was really understood by the child, now going to preschool…that the father was not able to say. There were several pink clouds, almost like Swirlix, floating here and there. Along with a blue balloon floating about. Approaching the bed, he poked the little Torchic’s shoulder, he whispered, “It’s time to get up. You have school today.”

Upon hearing the grumble, he simply dismissed it and left the room. What should he make for breakfast? Eggs, toast, cream-cheese spread bagels, a weak tea, maybe highly diluted coffee for flavour, and milkshakes. Lionel liked his milkshakes, for whatever reason.

Descending the spiral stairs, he could not hold back a scowl when his tail hit the banister at the top. Again. Really, how he managed to forget the post’s existence for the duration of knowing this house was almost comedic. He would laugh at the utter comedy of it, ha; ha; ha.

Once inside the kitchen, he took out the various food items with little to no thought about it. Bread from the pantry, milk and eggs from the refrigerator, bananas and strawberries from the fruit bowl—the centerpiece on the kitchen island—and the usual cabal of eating utensils. Humming to himself a tune no doubt planted inside his head by an annoying pop singer, he hummed the medley an octave lower as he put on an apron and got to work. Cooking oil spread thinly on the frying pan, toaster left untouched (for various reasons, the poor thing was gathering dust; he did wonder why he didn’t simply throw out the damn device and shrugged it off. It wasn’t plugged in or anything), fruit knife moving swiftly as he sliced and diced the fruits, and the kettle set to boil water.

His fins twitched as the French toast sizzled, there were still some eggs left over to be used. But he would certainly have to buy more later that night on his grocery run. Pouring the fruit and milk into the blender with generous scoops of yogurt, he left the machine on as he returned upstairs, checking on the pre-schooler.

The boy was sitting up now, and rubbing his eyes. The father had caught him in mid-yawn, and said nothing as he kept the door ajar, returning to his work in the kitchen. He flipped the French toast and began to crack a few eggs to make omelettes. One couldn’t be too careful with a pregnant and hormonal woman wanting all sorts of tastes; though he had to admit his wife was not as demanding as she was for her last two pregnancies with their boys. Hearing the kettle let off a soft ‘ding’, he glanced over at it for a moment before grabbing a small cup and pouring the hot water into it. Then he mixed honey into it—this was, from what he read in some book, a home-cure for sore throats. Or something of the sort. He doubted the fevered boy would be able to tell the difference, glad just for the sweetness of honey to drink.

Stupid boy.

Smiling a little, he began to hum another tune. Something softer, and easier on his unused vocal chords. He never did understand what was so romantic about serenading someone, but there was that look in that man’s eye whenever he sang with his wife that made him think…

Once breakfast was sufficiently made, everything warm and ready for consumption, he brought a tray upstairs to his room and roused his wife and children up. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” He whispered in her ear as he left a kiss on her nose. It was a redundant and overused turn of phrase, but it did have its merits, unfortunately. Setting his apron down on one of his work-chairs, he heard the pitter-patter of a pair of feet running downstairs excitedly.

Entering the kitchen again, he saw that Lionel was learning fast: he had taken his own breakfast things to the dining room. Including his own personal set of utensils and the like. Heading into that room though, the father only quirked an eyebrow at the boy’s choice of clothes. “Is it pink day?” Again, the boy rather seemed to like pink for whatever reason. He wasn’t averse to it, but found it troubling that he wouldn’t be able to offer the boy’s clothes as hand-me-downs to his own sons. Another sort of finance to sort out as they grew, no doubt.

Seeing the boy shake his head, Gawain simply let it be and poured himself a cup of weak coffee, sitting down to watch the boy eat.
Words: 1,122

Tuning in on the daily life of a young married couple and their three kids--soon to be four.

Don't even know why I started writing this, but I'm trying to get back into writing, nergh.

Reyson, Noah, (and Thalia) © KotoriMiko & Slayer-1412
Leto and Lionel West © KotoriMiko
Gawain West © Slayer-1412
Pokemon © Nintendo & GameFreak
© 2015 - 2024 Slayer-1412
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