"Letters"
by Acey
Blatant Disclaimer: Does Mr. Toriyama know English? And if he does, why is he writing fanfiction on a series he stopped? Hmm. Maybe it's none of the above, and I am not Mr. Toriyama... (which I'm not; I can't draw nearly that well-- but I try hard).
Author's Note: I'm surprised at myself. I keep looking back over my files... half my computer screen is filled with files bearing almost the same inscriptions: lettersone.txt, letterstwo.txt, and so on and so forth. I never, ever thought that at this late date from the publish date I would still not be finished... but I want to say thanks to everyone who has stuck around reading this despite that. You all deserve it.
Laughter.
Four o'clock post meridian on a Saturday, and there was laughter, echoing high, barely above the treetops. Laughter, reckless laughter, that came from a derivement of such adrenaline-fueled pleasure as is seldom found in any but the young.
"This is a heck've a lot better than going to the movies like we were about to," one said after the slight fit ended. "What do you say?"
The girl with him nodded, and waved at the couple in the aircar nearby, smiling as they returned the greeting.
"Yeah. Way to double date-- especially when there aren't any good movies in the theaters this week anyway."
He grinned. Sarcasm was bonus points to find in any date. Most girls spent their time at the movies or at restaurants only staring at him in practical bliss, or so it appeared, at any rate, as he had been able to easily swipe their food, regardless if it was egg drop soup or popcorn, with no protests. Just rather starry eyes that made him think suddenly that the girl looked like some pink specimen of cow, and that bored him, so he rarely went with any of them more than once. His specialty in dating was cheerleaders (but he had guidelines for those: no freshmen or rookies to the cheer squad, no matter how cute), as fit, as he was on the football team. This new date was one of them, a brown-eyed junior whose formerly chestnut hair had been a shade of platinum blonde since the sixth grade (an all-over blonde, no mere streaks would ever befitt one of cheering status).
She was a more interesting date than normal, that was for sure. A tad witty. He chuckled inwardly. She wouldn't know how uncommon such a privelige was, but he would ask her out again, if all remained well. She'd enjoyed the double date with his friend and his friend's girlfriend so far, so probably--
She called his name while he was fumbling with the radio and making plans for how the rest of their time would go (he was getting rather bored trying to fly the aircar as low as he could without hitting treetops). He had barely found his own favorite station before she spoke.
"Look over here," she said, voice losing some of its characteristic flippant quality as she leaned part of her ponytailed head out the window.
He looked.
He saw nothing at first but the branches of trees ordinary to the area, trees and a hardly-used road. Deciding that it was a joke, part of him wanted to try to find the radio station again, but something held him back and he kept looking, down below him to the almost unused roadway.
The sight of a small, irrepairably smashed cherry car greeted him, lone on the paved road barely in use in the day and age of the aircar. 'So much technology, and there were still crashes,' he thought absently, before it registered in his mind that there was no one else there, no police cars or ambulances. And--(oh, no worse situation imaginable for teenagers already pegged as reckless!) no other driver. No one else with a damaged car by the scene, trying to help. A hit-and-run had occured less than a hundred feet below them.
"What're we going to do?"
His date, worried-sounding, afraid. He looked down once more.
"We didn't do this." A fact which was painfully obvious by the lack of dents on their aircar or his friend's, and from the look on his date's face, it was by far not the response she hadwanted.
He pulled out a cell phone from its resting place beside the cupholders containing what was left of a can of soda pop, and dialed three fingernail-sized numbers.
"Hello? We're on Maudlin Street in Western Capital, and there's been some kind of accident..."
************************************************************************
The ambulance barreled out in fifteen minutes, accompanied by police. They came in haste and questioned the four thoroughly, inspecting their cars for any sign that they had been involved in the accident. Everything came out clear; they were innocent, and were let go, dates shaky and altogether so miserable that neither pair remembered even goodnight kisses.
The ambulance had other matters, as they opened the only car door untouched by the crash and pulled the driver out. One of the paramedics' eyes widened as he saw the driver's aged face.
"That's-- I've seen her. I had to write a paper on her in science class in high school. She had some really big acheivements in genetics."
"That's nice," said the other, annoyed. "You're supposed to be getting her out of here and into the back of the ambulance, not telling me what you wrote for a paper. You're being unprofessional."
He checked the pulse of the woman. "Breathing. Cut up when the window glass shattered, I think. Hurry with the stretcher, if we get her to the hospital in time I think she'll be all right--"
The other nodded and obeyed.
************************************************************************
The cook surveyed the meal, pleased. Miss's favorites, baked potatoes with butter and half a dozen other condiments, lemonade made with out-of-season lemons (Miss despised lemonade mix, and had told her so the second she had first made it that way, not realizing the woman could tell the difference), baked chicken. To top it all off, the apple cake from the day before or so, now with a sugary glaze. If Miss didn't like that when she came home, then she was more sour than Cook thought. Miss's mood hadn't been the best in the past few days (even with the apple cake). The cook figured it must have been the realization of her old age with no children or grandchildren to comfort her. She had heard that on a movie she had once watched late one night when her favorite program had been off due to specials, a documentary on aging. It said that if the old person in question had family that often came to see them or close friends, the chances were greater that they would live longer.
'Miss just has me, and even I go on vacation," had been her thought after watching it, and it had bothered her today. Cook pitied her employer. She deserved a few special meals, at least. though the cook would readily admit it wasn't exacly a proper substitute for family.
She had just placed the two plates on the table when the phone rang. She answered, annoyed, supposing it to be Doctor Tanner or possibly Taylor, Tanner saying yet again how he had disproved all of Miss's theories on genetices, Taylor requesting a recommendation for his daughter to go to Harvard.
"Hello, Doctor ______'s residence."
"Hello, we're calling from Western Capital Hospital. Are you Miss ________'s -- child? Caregiver?"
"Cook."
"Oh. There's been an accident."
The cook gripped the phone.
"Accident--"
"It was a car accident, a hit-and-run. She has been cut up badly, whiplash, a broken bone. We believe she will recover in several weeks. In the meantime, she's in the emergency room number--"
The cook murmered what was taken for a yes and copied down the information, phone numbers, room number, hanging up the phone, face suddenly looking years older than it actually was for a few seconds. She looked again at the meal without appetite, and smiled sadly as a thought came to her mind. The cook walked outside, capsule in hand, and opened it, watching absently as a rather dingy car appeared. An outdated automobile, given to her by a well-meaning great-aunt fifteen or sixteen years before. She nodded, and ran back into the house, emerging outside again carrying the platters of food in her hands.
"They said you had a broken bone, but they didn't say you had to eat hospital food," she said, and she got in the car and backed out of the driveway.
************************************************************************
Blatant Disclaimer: Does Mr. Toriyama know English? And if he does, why is he writing fanfiction on a series he stopped? Hmm. Maybe it's none of the above, and I am not Mr. Toriyama... (which I'm not; I can't draw nearly that well-- but I try hard).
Author's Note: I'm surprised at myself. I keep looking back over my files... half my computer screen is filled with files bearing almost the same inscriptions: lettersone.txt, letterstwo.txt, and so on and so forth. I never, ever thought that at this late date from the publish date I would still not be finished... but I want to say thanks to everyone who has stuck around reading this despite that. You all deserve it.
Laughter.
Four o'clock post meridian on a Saturday, and there was laughter, echoing high, barely above the treetops. Laughter, reckless laughter, that came from a derivement of such adrenaline-fueled pleasure as is seldom found in any but the young.
"This is a heck've a lot better than going to the movies like we were about to," one said after the slight fit ended. "What do you say?"
The girl with him nodded, and waved at the couple in the aircar nearby, smiling as they returned the greeting.
"Yeah. Way to double date-- especially when there aren't any good movies in the theaters this week anyway."
He grinned. Sarcasm was bonus points to find in any date. Most girls spent their time at the movies or at restaurants only staring at him in practical bliss, or so it appeared, at any rate, as he had been able to easily swipe their food, regardless if it was egg drop soup or popcorn, with no protests. Just rather starry eyes that made him think suddenly that the girl looked like some pink specimen of cow, and that bored him, so he rarely went with any of them more than once. His specialty in dating was cheerleaders (but he had guidelines for those: no freshmen or rookies to the cheer squad, no matter how cute), as fit, as he was on the football team. This new date was one of them, a brown-eyed junior whose formerly chestnut hair had been a shade of platinum blonde since the sixth grade (an all-over blonde, no mere streaks would ever befitt one of cheering status).
She was a more interesting date than normal, that was for sure. A tad witty. He chuckled inwardly. She wouldn't know how uncommon such a privelige was, but he would ask her out again, if all remained well. She'd enjoyed the double date with his friend and his friend's girlfriend so far, so probably--
She called his name while he was fumbling with the radio and making plans for how the rest of their time would go (he was getting rather bored trying to fly the aircar as low as he could without hitting treetops). He had barely found his own favorite station before she spoke.
"Look over here," she said, voice losing some of its characteristic flippant quality as she leaned part of her ponytailed head out the window.
He looked.
He saw nothing at first but the branches of trees ordinary to the area, trees and a hardly-used road. Deciding that it was a joke, part of him wanted to try to find the radio station again, but something held him back and he kept looking, down below him to the almost unused roadway.
The sight of a small, irrepairably smashed cherry car greeted him, lone on the paved road barely in use in the day and age of the aircar. 'So much technology, and there were still crashes,' he thought absently, before it registered in his mind that there was no one else there, no police cars or ambulances. And--(oh, no worse situation imaginable for teenagers already pegged as reckless!) no other driver. No one else with a damaged car by the scene, trying to help. A hit-and-run had occured less than a hundred feet below them.
"What're we going to do?"
His date, worried-sounding, afraid. He looked down once more.
"We didn't do this." A fact which was painfully obvious by the lack of dents on their aircar or his friend's, and from the look on his date's face, it was by far not the response she hadwanted.
He pulled out a cell phone from its resting place beside the cupholders containing what was left of a can of soda pop, and dialed three fingernail-sized numbers.
"Hello? We're on Maudlin Street in Western Capital, and there's been some kind of accident..."
************************************************************************
The ambulance barreled out in fifteen minutes, accompanied by police. They came in haste and questioned the four thoroughly, inspecting their cars for any sign that they had been involved in the accident. Everything came out clear; they were innocent, and were let go, dates shaky and altogether so miserable that neither pair remembered even goodnight kisses.
The ambulance had other matters, as they opened the only car door untouched by the crash and pulled the driver out. One of the paramedics' eyes widened as he saw the driver's aged face.
"That's-- I've seen her. I had to write a paper on her in science class in high school. She had some really big acheivements in genetics."
"That's nice," said the other, annoyed. "You're supposed to be getting her out of here and into the back of the ambulance, not telling me what you wrote for a paper. You're being unprofessional."
He checked the pulse of the woman. "Breathing. Cut up when the window glass shattered, I think. Hurry with the stretcher, if we get her to the hospital in time I think she'll be all right--"
The other nodded and obeyed.
************************************************************************
The cook surveyed the meal, pleased. Miss's favorites, baked potatoes with butter and half a dozen other condiments, lemonade made with out-of-season lemons (Miss despised lemonade mix, and had told her so the second she had first made it that way, not realizing the woman could tell the difference), baked chicken. To top it all off, the apple cake from the day before or so, now with a sugary glaze. If Miss didn't like that when she came home, then she was more sour than Cook thought. Miss's mood hadn't been the best in the past few days (even with the apple cake). The cook figured it must have been the realization of her old age with no children or grandchildren to comfort her. She had heard that on a movie she had once watched late one night when her favorite program had been off due to specials, a documentary on aging. It said that if the old person in question had family that often came to see them or close friends, the chances were greater that they would live longer.
'Miss just has me, and even I go on vacation," had been her thought after watching it, and it had bothered her today. Cook pitied her employer. She deserved a few special meals, at least. though the cook would readily admit it wasn't exacly a proper substitute for family.
She had just placed the two plates on the table when the phone rang. She answered, annoyed, supposing it to be Doctor Tanner or possibly Taylor, Tanner saying yet again how he had disproved all of Miss's theories on genetices, Taylor requesting a recommendation for his daughter to go to Harvard.
"Hello, Doctor ______'s residence."
"Hello, we're calling from Western Capital Hospital. Are you Miss ________'s -- child? Caregiver?"
"Cook."
"Oh. There's been an accident."
The cook gripped the phone.
"Accident--"
"It was a car accident, a hit-and-run. She has been cut up badly, whiplash, a broken bone. We believe she will recover in several weeks. In the meantime, she's in the emergency room number--"
The cook murmered what was taken for a yes and copied down the information, phone numbers, room number, hanging up the phone, face suddenly looking years older than it actually was for a few seconds. She looked again at the meal without appetite, and smiled sadly as a thought came to her mind. The cook walked outside, capsule in hand, and opened it, watching absently as a rather dingy car appeared. An outdated automobile, given to her by a well-meaning great-aunt fifteen or sixteen years before. She nodded, and ran back into the house, emerging outside again carrying the platters of food in her hands.
"They said you had a broken bone, but they didn't say you had to eat hospital food," she said, and she got in the car and backed out of the driveway.
************************************************************************