You fucking think? Not good enough. An apology is not good enough. This should have never happened in the first place. This is a fucking professional league. Under no circumstances should shit like this go down.
Prompt 004 - Explore. Dream. Discover. || Clark Kent (solo)
The old chain creaked rhythmically as the swing chair moved slowly back-and-forth, propelled by the dark-haired boy nestled among its cushions. On the horizon, a sunset burned the Kansas sky with hues of red and orange, competing against the ominous darkness of a distant - but growing - thunderstorm.
The air around the farmstead was growing hot and humid, but the boy didn’t pay it any attention, his attention focused on the book in his lap, an expression of bored confusion creasing his face. Breathing a frustrated sigh, he snapped shut the cover and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the back of the bench.
“What’cha doin’ there, son?” his father asked, stepping out onto the veranda, a cold beer in his dirty, calloused hands.
“Readin’,” the sullen youth replied without opening his eyes, which elicited a chuckle from the old farmer.
“Mhmm..,” he murmured good-naturedly, taking a sip from the beer. “I sure am glad yer told me, Clark. I saw that book in yer lap an’ wondered what it was doin’ there.”
Clark gave his father a withering, ‘I-am-not-amused’ glance, the same one exchanged between teenagers and their parents the world over, but that only made him laugh harder.
“Come on, it can’t be all that bad, surely?,” Jonathan Kent asked, ruffling his son’s hair and sitting down next to him. “So, what’cha reading?”
Passing the book to his father, Clark shifted on the chair to make room. “Huckleberry Finn. Mrs Taylor says we gotta read it, but I can’t make sense of it and I don’t like the way it’s written!”
“Mark Twain, huh,” Jonathan said, taking out his glasses and putting his arm around the boy. “Yeah, I can remember wrestlin’ with this old fella when I was your age… I guess some things never change, eh?”
Clark rested his head against his father’s shoulder as Jonathan lifted the book from his son’s hands and began to flip through the well-thumbed pages.
“So what exactly’re ya havin’ trouble with, son?” he asked curiously, opening it at Clark’s marked page.
“I dunno…,” Clark shrugged, closing his eyes as a rumble of thunder sounded in the middle distance. “It’s written all weird, and I kinda have trouble following what they’re talkin’ about half th’time.”
Jonathan nodded, an understanding smile spreading across his face as he touched his son’s hair. “Well, I might be able’ta help ya there,” he said kindly. “See, I remember somethin’ I was told when I was at school, and I never really understood Huck Finn or Tom Sawyer before I heard this… Ya gotta understand that, first an’ foremost, Mark Twain is a storyteller, and he’s writin’ stories about folks in th’way they use’ta talk back then. There’s a rhythm to it. So, if ya wanna really understand Huck Finn, ya gotta speak it, not jus’ read it…”
“ ‘Chapter 35, it would be most an hour yet till breakfast, so we left and struck down into the woods; because Tom said we got to have some light to see how to dig by, and a lantern makes too much, and might get us into trouble…’,” Jonathan said, reading the book aloud to his young son. It had been years since his father last read to him and Clark snuggled closer, closing his eyes as the rain began to fall.
There is a sense of comfort to be had in the arms of a parent as they read to you; some instinctive feeling which touches you deep inside with a sense of safety and contentment. Clark smiled happily as he listened to the old farmer recounting Huck & Tom’s adventures, digging their tunnel like a pair of escaping convicts.
Lulled by the sound of the rainstorm, the creaking of the old chain and his father’s voice, Clark started to drift off as the Sun’s last light dipped below the horizon. ‘…right is right, and wrong is wrong, and a body ain’t got no business doing wrong when he ain’t ignorant and knows better‘ were the last words young Clark heard as he finally succumbed to sleep, content and happy in his father’s arms as the storm clouds passed them by.