Post by orinocoflow on Nov 20, 2010 20:52:14 GMT -5
part two of furb's story but its written by me
“I’m hungry,” complained Damien for the hundredth time.
“I can make popcorn if you want, but we’re out of everything else,” suggested Paul, looking up from his book and holding the place with his thumb.
“NO! Never again am I letting you cook popcorn in the microwave!” exclaimed Damien, all hunger forgotten. “Why can’t George cook something?”
“Because George escaped to the other bus so as not to hear you complaining every five seconds. After all, not everyone has iron nerves like me,” Paul explained casually in a tone suggesting that this was not the first time he had said those words. With a smirk, Damien looked out the window back at the other bus, sighing.
“Aw, com’on Damo, give me some credit! I’ve successfully cooked popcorn several times these last few months; let me poison—I mean, cook this time,” he said with a wink. Damien rolled his eyes but after a moment nodded.
Smiling, Paul got up and popped the bag into the microwave, absentmindedly keying in the familiar numbers while he teased the teenager about his weight. Laughing, he sat back near the window and cracked open his book, reading…
There was a pause, and then Damien said, “Paul, did you…” his eyes widened. “You did put in two minutes, right? Paul…”
Paul looked up in surprise and sniffed the air. His brows shooting up, he dropped his book and raced back to the microwave, coughing at the fumes and ripping open the door, dragging out the bag that was reduced to…cinders. With a groan, he dropped it in the trashcan conveniently nearby and plopped down on his bunk.
“BYROM!!!” yelled Damien, leaping up from his bunk. “You’re kidding me, right? RIGHT?!”
“I can't believe I burned it again!” Paul muttered into his pillow, burying his face until he heard the kid laughing and typing…on his cell? His head shot up as he realized that Damien was once more putting it on Twitter…
Whipping out his phone, he typed as fast as he could and posted his own tweet, praying that it would get there before Damien’s. He would not let the teen get away with it this time…
“Whoa! How—man, you can type fast!”
Paul smiled with satisfaction that his tweet had gotten up first and reached down to get his book, going back to reading.
“If you’re still complaining, go cook your own popcorn—let’s see how many minutes you key in.”
THE END
“I’m hungry,” complained Damien for the hundredth time.
“I can make popcorn if you want, but we’re out of everything else,” suggested Paul, looking up from his book and holding the place with his thumb.
“NO! Never again am I letting you cook popcorn in the microwave!” exclaimed Damien, all hunger forgotten. “Why can’t George cook something?”
“Because George escaped to the other bus so as not to hear you complaining every five seconds. After all, not everyone has iron nerves like me,” Paul explained casually in a tone suggesting that this was not the first time he had said those words. With a smirk, Damien looked out the window back at the other bus, sighing.
“Aw, com’on Damo, give me some credit! I’ve successfully cooked popcorn several times these last few months; let me poison—I mean, cook this time,” he said with a wink. Damien rolled his eyes but after a moment nodded.
Smiling, Paul got up and popped the bag into the microwave, absentmindedly keying in the familiar numbers while he teased the teenager about his weight. Laughing, he sat back near the window and cracked open his book, reading…
There was a pause, and then Damien said, “Paul, did you…” his eyes widened. “You did put in two minutes, right? Paul…”
Paul looked up in surprise and sniffed the air. His brows shooting up, he dropped his book and raced back to the microwave, coughing at the fumes and ripping open the door, dragging out the bag that was reduced to…cinders. With a groan, he dropped it in the trashcan conveniently nearby and plopped down on his bunk.
“BYROM!!!” yelled Damien, leaping up from his bunk. “You’re kidding me, right? RIGHT?!”
“I can't believe I burned it again!” Paul muttered into his pillow, burying his face until he heard the kid laughing and typing…on his cell? His head shot up as he realized that Damien was once more putting it on Twitter…
Whipping out his phone, he typed as fast as he could and posted his own tweet, praying that it would get there before Damien’s. He would not let the teen get away with it this time…
“Whoa! How—man, you can type fast!”
Paul smiled with satisfaction that his tweet had gotten up first and reached down to get his book, going back to reading.
“If you’re still complaining, go cook your own popcorn—let’s see how many minutes you key in.”
THE END