bluejeans07 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bluejeans07) wrote2006-03-09 12:32 pm
bluejeans07) wrote2006-03-09 12:32 pm
Rhapsody Part Three: The Peach Boy
NOT inspired by the Momotaro legend. With this one, I tried to write from Ryuu's point of view since the first one was Jesse's and the second was both of them. Ryuu's originally from Japan so I attempted to write like someone who struggles a bit with his English, so I apologize if it's a bit stilted and difficult to read. Believe me, it was difficult to write!
Word Count: 455
I have a peach tree, although it is not mine. It belongs to my neighbors whose backyard is separated from ours with large fence. No fence can contain this tree since it has determined that it should reach out to the sun as much as it can and spread its branches to the rest of the world, beginning with the backyard of our new house. Since it is autumn there are currently only few leaves, mostly bare branches, but when it is spring I am sure there will be beautiful pink blossoms.
Sometimes, I open my window and sit in my window seat with a book, pretending to read but really I am looking at the peach tree. I dream about the peaches that will grow from there, the soft, fuzzy skin covering the fleshy, ripe fruit with its sweet juices. Peaches have strange taste I think, a tangy mixture of sweetness and sharp acidity that make it unique from other fruit. Mother agrees with me on this but she tells me she wonders that if my senses are sharper than hers because one of my senses is limited. I would not be able to tell her.
And then there is the Peach Boy who I sometimes see crawling through the tree, climbing as high as he can, reaching for the sun like the peach tree that he owns. And sometimes, I watch him as he climbs and climbs with guitar strapped to his back, or a book, or with headphones on... until he reaches large, heavy branch strong enough to support him as he adjusts himself on it. My favorite time is when he plays his guitar and he sings songs that I do not understand. But there is a look I like on his face, almost like an expression of someone who has found comfortable place in the world and celebrates it through his songs and through climbing the tree as high as he can to embrace it. Peach Boy is not hiding from the noise and the troubles of reality like I am... rather he is someone who takes the noise and makes it into art, the combination of acidity and sweetness.
Imagine my surprise when I started my new school and the person who opened the door to my trigonometry class was Peach Boy. His eyes were large, his nose bulbous and round, his lips thin and his head more rectangular than I remembered that at first, I did not believe him to be my Peach Boy. But then, I looked down and saw his hands, scratched and scarred in places from the bark of the tree, fingers stubby and calloused from strumming too long on his guitar, and I smiled.
Word Count: 455
I have a peach tree, although it is not mine. It belongs to my neighbors whose backyard is separated from ours with large fence. No fence can contain this tree since it has determined that it should reach out to the sun as much as it can and spread its branches to the rest of the world, beginning with the backyard of our new house. Since it is autumn there are currently only few leaves, mostly bare branches, but when it is spring I am sure there will be beautiful pink blossoms.
Sometimes, I open my window and sit in my window seat with a book, pretending to read but really I am looking at the peach tree. I dream about the peaches that will grow from there, the soft, fuzzy skin covering the fleshy, ripe fruit with its sweet juices. Peaches have strange taste I think, a tangy mixture of sweetness and sharp acidity that make it unique from other fruit. Mother agrees with me on this but she tells me she wonders that if my senses are sharper than hers because one of my senses is limited. I would not be able to tell her.
And then there is the Peach Boy who I sometimes see crawling through the tree, climbing as high as he can, reaching for the sun like the peach tree that he owns. And sometimes, I watch him as he climbs and climbs with guitar strapped to his back, or a book, or with headphones on... until he reaches large, heavy branch strong enough to support him as he adjusts himself on it. My favorite time is when he plays his guitar and he sings songs that I do not understand. But there is a look I like on his face, almost like an expression of someone who has found comfortable place in the world and celebrates it through his songs and through climbing the tree as high as he can to embrace it. Peach Boy is not hiding from the noise and the troubles of reality like I am... rather he is someone who takes the noise and makes it into art, the combination of acidity and sweetness.
Imagine my surprise when I started my new school and the person who opened the door to my trigonometry class was Peach Boy. His eyes were large, his nose bulbous and round, his lips thin and his head more rectangular than I remembered that at first, I did not believe him to be my Peach Boy. But then, I looked down and saw his hands, scratched and scarred in places from the bark of the tree, fingers stubby and calloused from strumming too long on his guitar, and I smiled.
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So cuuuuute. Me likey.