Post by Lucas Lightner on Jun 4, 2017 22:28:38 GMT -5
Glass windows rattled in a silver frame. The entire structure—silver, all of it—shook right down to its very foundations. The entire space seemed shaped vaguely like a rectangle, with an outcropping turning it more into an “L”. In the center of the open and polished room laid a man, close to six feet tall with a short, blonde beard and matching, shoulder-length hair. If it weren’t for the thick arms and facial hair, it gave him a nearly feminine appearance.
“Okay, okay,” the gruff voice of the older man groaned. He rolled onto a side and propped himself up with his right arm and waved his other at the man in front of him. He had a white button-up shirt on, matted with sweat and stained with droplets of blood. His nostrils had the tell-tale dried crust that gave away the sources of those stains.
In front of him, fists still raised and red, stood Lucas. His black hair, matted with sweat much like his father’s shirt, clung tightly to his head. His white t-shirt looked dry except for the thin spattering of blood from when he struck his father’s nose earlier—but not hard enough to break it. His bare feet remained firm on the silver floor, left foot forward. He held more weight on his toes and the front half of his foot than his heel. Loose, black, cotton slacks hung down from his waist.
A slow sigh escaped Lucas. His body visibly relaxed and loosened. He lowered his arms to his sides, then kneeled and offered a hand to his fallen father.
“You’re still good, Dad,” Lucas tried to reassure his father, like he always did over the course of the past few years. “You fight like you’re not a day older than fifty.”
His father turned sixty-three just a month ago.
His father took Lucas’ hand and hoisted himself back to his bare feet. Unlike his son, he wore a belt and gray pants that looked better suited for an office than a dungeon like the one they were both in.
“I wish I really was,” his father groaned as he straightened out. Lucas heard the popping in his father’s shoulders that he had come to hate.
“Surgery on both of those,” Lucas pointed to the thick shoulders under the sweat-drenched shirt. “And you can still give me a run for my money. You’re too hard on yourself, Edward.”
His father scoffed, “Don’t talk like your grandmother—I got an earful after the last surgery.”
Lucas’ grandmother always was a tough woman, even at eighty-three. His father insisted she was quite the Quincy back in her heyday.
“You listen to her. Don’t blame me for doing what works with you,” Lucas teased his father’s stubbornness. A product of the environment he grew up in. “Now come on, let’s go upstairs and get changed. I have something I want to show you.”
*****
487 Words
“Okay, okay,” the gruff voice of the older man groaned. He rolled onto a side and propped himself up with his right arm and waved his other at the man in front of him. He had a white button-up shirt on, matted with sweat and stained with droplets of blood. His nostrils had the tell-tale dried crust that gave away the sources of those stains.
In front of him, fists still raised and red, stood Lucas. His black hair, matted with sweat much like his father’s shirt, clung tightly to his head. His white t-shirt looked dry except for the thin spattering of blood from when he struck his father’s nose earlier—but not hard enough to break it. His bare feet remained firm on the silver floor, left foot forward. He held more weight on his toes and the front half of his foot than his heel. Loose, black, cotton slacks hung down from his waist.
A slow sigh escaped Lucas. His body visibly relaxed and loosened. He lowered his arms to his sides, then kneeled and offered a hand to his fallen father.
“You’re still good, Dad,” Lucas tried to reassure his father, like he always did over the course of the past few years. “You fight like you’re not a day older than fifty.”
His father turned sixty-three just a month ago.
His father took Lucas’ hand and hoisted himself back to his bare feet. Unlike his son, he wore a belt and gray pants that looked better suited for an office than a dungeon like the one they were both in.
“I wish I really was,” his father groaned as he straightened out. Lucas heard the popping in his father’s shoulders that he had come to hate.
“Surgery on both of those,” Lucas pointed to the thick shoulders under the sweat-drenched shirt. “And you can still give me a run for my money. You’re too hard on yourself, Edward.”
His father scoffed, “Don’t talk like your grandmother—I got an earful after the last surgery.”
Lucas’ grandmother always was a tough woman, even at eighty-three. His father insisted she was quite the Quincy back in her heyday.
“You listen to her. Don’t blame me for doing what works with you,” Lucas teased his father’s stubbornness. A product of the environment he grew up in. “Now come on, let’s go upstairs and get changed. I have something I want to show you.”
*****
487 Words