Sord in Prosperity - Hope Beyond the Apocalypse

EP. 122 - BECCA

SORD YAWNED DEEPLY AND dropped the pad onto his bed. Despite his improved speed-reading skills, a full hour had passed as he slogged through his ancestor's diary. He was hungry. Hungry and bored.

"Why does Mom force me to read such crap?" he wondered in disgust. "She didn't know this guy, and I don't care if he was my great-great-whatever. I'd even prefer to practice viola, which I hate, so I don't have to read such useless nonsense."

He strode into the kitchen, grimacing and shaking his head.

"Something bothering you?" Becca asked.

Sord clicked his tongue. This was his long-established signal to her that he was not pleased.

"You always ask me to tell you the truth about things, and I'll tell you the truth about this old fart."

"Sord, please! You mean your long-lost relative?"

"Yeah, though I can't believe I'm related to such an tedious guy. Why should I be forced to study this pile of poop when it has no obvious value? There's nothing in Prosperity's abundant list of onerous rules that says a teenager should be compelled to consume meaningless and often repetitive banter."

"Did you begin with the initial chapter, where he talks about UFOs and all?"

"Yes!" he stammered. "A total and utter dud for the most part. I'd rather practice viola for an hour than waste my time on some dead dude's ramblings."

"Hmm, it would be wonderful if you willfully picked up the instrument without my prodding. But I can't believe it's that bad. Sord, you recall your father and I named you after a small flock of mallards we saw when I told him I was pregnant with you?"

"And haven't I heard that story for the millionth time?"

She smiled and sighed. "Then it's the analogy you'll have heard for the million and one-th, then."

"Please, spare me," he pleaded. "I know, I know. Each mallard in flight represents a new concept, a new experience, a new beginning for exploration, et cetera, et cetera."

"The book is not so long, Dearie, that you can't spend a few hours with it to expand your conscious awareness. One must put oneself in others' shoes by reading about them and their experiences. A richness comes from the alignment of your imagination with their descriptive prose. You can't get that with your vidscreen games."

"Mom, I wish you wouldn't call me 'Dearie.' Sounds like I'm a girl. Maybe it was good for you when I was an infant, but I'm sixteen now."

"Every time you say that, I respond with the same retort. Your Grandma Sara always called me 'Dearie.' I adopted it since you were so sweet when young, before you could sass back at your poor mother."

Sord was staring out the compound window, wishing he could go outside and explore.

"Maybe before the sun goes down. Too hot out there now," she affirmed.

"Awesome!" he screamed, momentarily forgetting the pain he had just suffered from reading the diary. "I'll text Robbie to see if he can go out."

"Suits and extra gear for you boys, and don't go off too far, either. These winter evenings may be hot but it gets dark and cold quickly. I don't want send a Search and Rescue team out looking for you two. You know a lot of the shrubbery is slowly coming back, and no drone will do a good job of finding you splayed-out under a bush as vulture fodder."

Her forehead bristled from sweeping the floors of their apartment, and she wiped the damp sweat off. "I worry about him out there," she mouthed silently.