Following this, the next morning
It was that time of morning where children weren't quite on their way to school yet, and everyone was still inside getting ready to face the day. The streets were quiet, clear. The fog was thin, but clung in bunches to trees and lamp posts, diffusing light and making everything look like it was glowing.
Michael sat on a swing in the park, idly pushing himself back and forth a bit. He kept thinking about his argument with Hans yesterday. He shouldn't have let himself get so angry, but the man was infuriating, the pessimism, and the cynicism, seeing life as one big series of bad events with little to no good in between. Michael snorted when he realized that he and his optimism were likely just as infuriating to Hans. Opposites attract, indeed.
He pushed off just a little more, swinging his feet out just a bit. Were all Germans so fatalistic, or was it just the era Hans was born into? He didn't know. He hadn't met many Germans in Mittiligart, let alone from pre-WWII.
He swung his feet out more, increasing his speed. Trying to force the man to see good probably wasn't going to work, he mused. All his ranting and philosophical words had done little but make him shut down and refuse to talk, and that would get them nowhere.
He swung his legs out harder, pumping them to get him up as high as gravity would allow. No, he wouldn't talk philosophy or life with Hans any more, providing he could get the man to talk to him at all. He would talk of the weather, and the town, and maybe what Phyllis on Carlson Street had told him about Edna on Finn's Drive. If Hans told him he was being too optimistic, or tried to tell him that this wasn't one of his movies, Michael would act like he hadn't heard such a thing come out of his mouth and continue talking.
He closed his eyes and leaned back, letting the sound of the wind rushing through his ears clear his mind. The air was cold and crisp and the tips of his ears were beginning to go numb, but he swung his legs back and forth and back and forth, pushing himself higher and higher, keeping the wind loud in his ears.
The sounds of school buses and kids saying good bye to their parents reached his ears even through the wind, and Michael sat up, letting his feet drag along the ground. He stopped, twisting slightly in the swing, and stood, gathering his coat and his newspaper from the bench where he'd laid them. He slid the coat on, tucked the paper under his arm, and headed off to the cinema, whistling a mindless little tune.
character: Michael Gustavson
game: Mittiligart
words: 465
It was that time of morning where children weren't quite on their way to school yet, and everyone was still inside getting ready to face the day. The streets were quiet, clear. The fog was thin, but clung in bunches to trees and lamp posts, diffusing light and making everything look like it was glowing.
Michael sat on a swing in the park, idly pushing himself back and forth a bit. He kept thinking about his argument with Hans yesterday. He shouldn't have let himself get so angry, but the man was infuriating, the pessimism, and the cynicism, seeing life as one big series of bad events with little to no good in between. Michael snorted when he realized that he and his optimism were likely just as infuriating to Hans. Opposites attract, indeed.
He pushed off just a little more, swinging his feet out just a bit. Were all Germans so fatalistic, or was it just the era Hans was born into? He didn't know. He hadn't met many Germans in Mittiligart, let alone from pre-WWII.
He swung his feet out more, increasing his speed. Trying to force the man to see good probably wasn't going to work, he mused. All his ranting and philosophical words had done little but make him shut down and refuse to talk, and that would get them nowhere.
He swung his legs out harder, pumping them to get him up as high as gravity would allow. No, he wouldn't talk philosophy or life with Hans any more, providing he could get the man to talk to him at all. He would talk of the weather, and the town, and maybe what Phyllis on Carlson Street had told him about Edna on Finn's Drive. If Hans told him he was being too optimistic, or tried to tell him that this wasn't one of his movies, Michael would act like he hadn't heard such a thing come out of his mouth and continue talking.
He closed his eyes and leaned back, letting the sound of the wind rushing through his ears clear his mind. The air was cold and crisp and the tips of his ears were beginning to go numb, but he swung his legs back and forth and back and forth, pushing himself higher and higher, keeping the wind loud in his ears.
The sounds of school buses and kids saying good bye to their parents reached his ears even through the wind, and Michael sat up, letting his feet drag along the ground. He stopped, twisting slightly in the swing, and stood, gathering his coat and his newspaper from the bench where he'd laid them. He slid the coat on, tucked the paper under his arm, and headed off to the cinema, whistling a mindless little tune.
character: Michael Gustavson
game: Mittiligart
words: 465