said. Once his ear was close to her mouth, the sound of her voice was clear.
“ They’re coming,” she whispered. “They’re coming.”
Chapter Six
When Shawn’s alarm clock beeped cheerfully at six in the morning, he wanted to send it sailing into the nearest wall. He’d never been a morning person, and he didn’t imagine he ever would. It just wasn’t in him to enjoy the thought of leaving a comfy bed for work or school or anything else.
“ If it’s your job to eat a frog, it’s best to do it first thing in the morning,” his mother said. Her voice was so clear it sounded like it came from right above his head. He rolled over to find her standing in the doorway of his room dressed in burgundy colored silk pajamas covered by a matching robe. In her hands was a large mug with steam rising from it, lacing the air with a warm, chocolaty aroma.
“ Frogs? That’s disgusting.”
“ It’s also true.”
He sighed and pressed his head into the pillow beneath him as hard as he could, determined to soak up as much of its comfort as possible. “According to who?”
She clicked her tongue in her mouth. “According to whom.”
“ That’s not an answer.”
“ It’s a correction. And it’s true according to Mark Twain.”
He snorted and shook his head. “Are you going to curate a museum about him next?”
“ No. Alex is the Twain aficionado. He mentioned the quote to me one morning and it stuck in my brain.”
A sudden series of thoughts erupted in Shawn’s head about why his mother would be talking to a man in the morning, and he quickly pushed that train of thought off the tracks before it led him places he didn’t want to think about, especially without a cup of coffee in him first.
“ Alright alright,” he said. “I’ll get up. There better be something other than frogs for breakfast though.”
His mother laughed softly, backed out of the doorway, and left him alone. “I’ll see if I can find something more palatable,” she replied as she descended the stairs, the wooden steps just barely groaning as she walked down them.
Shawn stretched under the covers, his arms and legs trembling as he worked all the sleep out of his limbs, then he got up and ambled over to his backpack on the dresser. After unzipping it he turned it over and gave it several rough shakes. Clothing tumbled into a heap on the dresser top. Once it was empty he tossed the backpack into a corner.
He didn’t care much about fashion. Unlike most of the people he knew, he didn’t keep track of what was popular. When people asked him why, he told them it was because he was a rock star, and rock stars set the trends, but inside he knew it was because he was lazy and cheap. He didn’t see the point in spending money or time on something that was strictly utilitarian. It therefore didn’t take him long to pull out a crumpled t-shirt and tattered pair of jeans and put them on. The only article of clothing he always made sure to pack plenty of was socks. He couldn’t stand having cold feet.
As he stepped down to the ground floor of the townhouse, the scent of coffee grew stronger, and was quickly joined by eggs and ham. His dad, despite all his other successes as a parent, was not a good cook. Were it not for his step-mother Patricia, the only meals served in their Martian home would have been those brought in from restaurants and take-out places. His mother, though, had kitchen skills.
“ I hope this is satisfactory,” she said as she sat a plate down on the counter located between the kitchen and living room. On it were two eggs just the way he liked them – the whites firm and crispy along the outside with the yolks jiggling in the middle, ready to burst and cover the plate like slow-flowing sunshine – and a neat pile of thickly sliced ham, the pink meat lightly browned on the edges. Next to the plate was a mug filled to the brim with light brown liquid, the steam rising from it reminding him of the garden in
“ They’re coming,” she whispered. “They’re coming.”
Chapter Six
When Shawn’s alarm clock beeped cheerfully at six in the morning, he wanted to send it sailing into the nearest wall. He’d never been a morning person, and he didn’t imagine he ever would. It just wasn’t in him to enjoy the thought of leaving a comfy bed for work or school or anything else.
“ If it’s your job to eat a frog, it’s best to do it first thing in the morning,” his mother said. Her voice was so clear it sounded like it came from right above his head. He rolled over to find her standing in the doorway of his room dressed in burgundy colored silk pajamas covered by a matching robe. In her hands was a large mug with steam rising from it, lacing the air with a warm, chocolaty aroma.
“ Frogs? That’s disgusting.”
“ It’s also true.”
He sighed and pressed his head into the pillow beneath him as hard as he could, determined to soak up as much of its comfort as possible. “According to who?”
She clicked her tongue in her mouth. “According to whom.”
“ That’s not an answer.”
“ It’s a correction. And it’s true according to Mark Twain.”
He snorted and shook his head. “Are you going to curate a museum about him next?”
“ No. Alex is the Twain aficionado. He mentioned the quote to me one morning and it stuck in my brain.”
A sudden series of thoughts erupted in Shawn’s head about why his mother would be talking to a man in the morning, and he quickly pushed that train of thought off the tracks before it led him places he didn’t want to think about, especially without a cup of coffee in him first.
“ Alright alright,” he said. “I’ll get up. There better be something other than frogs for breakfast though.”
His mother laughed softly, backed out of the doorway, and left him alone. “I’ll see if I can find something more palatable,” she replied as she descended the stairs, the wooden steps just barely groaning as she walked down them.
Shawn stretched under the covers, his arms and legs trembling as he worked all the sleep out of his limbs, then he got up and ambled over to his backpack on the dresser. After unzipping it he turned it over and gave it several rough shakes. Clothing tumbled into a heap on the dresser top. Once it was empty he tossed the backpack into a corner.
He didn’t care much about fashion. Unlike most of the people he knew, he didn’t keep track of what was popular. When people asked him why, he told them it was because he was a rock star, and rock stars set the trends, but inside he knew it was because he was lazy and cheap. He didn’t see the point in spending money or time on something that was strictly utilitarian. It therefore didn’t take him long to pull out a crumpled t-shirt and tattered pair of jeans and put them on. The only article of clothing he always made sure to pack plenty of was socks. He couldn’t stand having cold feet.
As he stepped down to the ground floor of the townhouse, the scent of coffee grew stronger, and was quickly joined by eggs and ham. His dad, despite all his other successes as a parent, was not a good cook. Were it not for his step-mother Patricia, the only meals served in their Martian home would have been those brought in from restaurants and take-out places. His mother, though, had kitchen skills.
“ I hope this is satisfactory,” she said as she sat a plate down on the counter located between the kitchen and living room. On it were two eggs just the way he liked them – the whites firm and crispy along the outside with the yolks jiggling in the middle, ready to burst and cover the plate like slow-flowing sunshine – and a neat pile of thickly sliced ham, the pink meat lightly browned on the edges. Next to the plate was a mug filled to the brim with light brown liquid, the steam rising from it reminding him of the garden in
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