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mr. churchill said;
summary: countries were human once too; or are they always human?
Arthur Kirkland woke up early in the morning, took his tea, had a hearty breakfast of scones, tended to his garden briefly, before picking up a newspaper on his way to work. If you had asked him what his name was, he would have promptly said Arthur Kirkland. If you had questioned more persistently, you would have most certainly been blown off about your stupid questions, his calm demeanor suddenly storming into raw curses and crude finger motions, but if--if!--you had turned around for a moment after slinking away, you would have seen him with a puzzled, uncomfortable look on his face, as if he could not place something.
He was a distinguishable man, who worked in a generic company that may have been insurance or real estate or something of the sort, but whatever it was, it did so involve a lot of international travel, though he would have had worn the same expression if questioned too persistently about what he actually did. He was distinguishable with his strong eyebrows, bright green eyes, and sudden emotional outbursts. He was so distinguishable that nobody really remembered him, but they all said he was a rather British chap.
This morning, he flipped through the newspaper in his office at work, looking none too surprised at any news. He claimed that he sensed that sort of thing, that it must be magic, absolutely. He could feel the cold chill of recession the moment it began, bruised himself in places for any troubling foreign affairs, and felt robust every time some new scientific accomplishment was absolutely smashing.
“Arthur,” someone said, a co-worker. “Heard you were going to America again. Don’t get smashed tonight, right?”
“What?” He stiffened considerably. “That’s absurd! Why would I ever get smashed just because I’m going somewhere?” He promptly ignored the co-worker’s answer, and grabbed his suit jacket before storming off somewhere, face aflame, deciding to ditch work to pack his outfits.
He usually packed normal suits, but he grabbed his old war uniform. He always told people that he had been in the war--and everyone quite assumed the most recent one, being as he was only 23. But somewhere inside him, he meant all the wars, and the uniform was only one. He collected suits, he told himself, which was how a golden suit of armor sat decorated in his hallway.
If there was a reason he got smashed, it was because America was were his brother was--Alfred, a stupid prat who had grown taller than him all too quickly. He had raised him with his own two hands, but after an argument about independence and an ugly fight, where he could not bring himself to hold Alfred back, his little brother had left to America. They were on better terms now, of course--but the thought still arose from time to time. He had a big family, and they all lived in different places now, abandoning him. His once big family had all left him, going to Seychelles and Australia and those sorts of places.
When he was younger, he remembered asking why it always rained so much in England. The person said that it must have been because England cried so much--but that was absurd, Arthur had reasoned. Instead, perhaps England had been lonely, and this was his state on the inside.
But that was equally absurd too, he had to tell himself. After all, a land was a land, and it was just very reasonable that the air currents and the ocean waves and all the scientific science would explain the rain, all very well, all very nicely.
Arthur Kirkland woke up early in the morning, took his tea, had a hearty breakfast of scones, tended to his garden briefly, before picking up a newspaper on his way to work. If you had asked him what his name was, he would have promptly said Arthur Kirkland. If you had questioned more persistently, you would have most certainly been blown off about your stupid questions, his calm demeanor suddenly storming into raw curses and crude finger motions, but if--if!--you had turned around for a moment after slinking away, you would have seen him with a puzzled, uncomfortable look on his face, as if he could not place something.
He was a distinguishable man, who worked in a generic company that may have been insurance or real estate or something of the sort, but whatever it was, it did so involve a lot of international travel, though he would have had worn the same expression if questioned too persistently about what he actually did. He was distinguishable with his strong eyebrows, bright green eyes, and sudden emotional outbursts. He was so distinguishable that nobody really remembered him, but they all said he was a rather British chap.
This morning, he flipped through the newspaper in his office at work, looking none too surprised at any news. He claimed that he sensed that sort of thing, that it must be magic, absolutely. He could feel the cold chill of recession the moment it began, bruised himself in places for any troubling foreign affairs, and felt robust every time some new scientific accomplishment was absolutely smashing.
“Arthur,” someone said, a co-worker. “Heard you were going to America again. Don’t get smashed tonight, right?”
“What?” He stiffened considerably. “That’s absurd! Why would I ever get smashed just because I’m going somewhere?” He promptly ignored the co-worker’s answer, and grabbed his suit jacket before storming off somewhere, face aflame, deciding to ditch work to pack his outfits.
He usually packed normal suits, but he grabbed his old war uniform. He always told people that he had been in the war--and everyone quite assumed the most recent one, being as he was only 23. But somewhere inside him, he meant all the wars, and the uniform was only one. He collected suits, he told himself, which was how a golden suit of armor sat decorated in his hallway.
If there was a reason he got smashed, it was because America was were his brother was--Alfred, a stupid prat who had grown taller than him all too quickly. He had raised him with his own two hands, but after an argument about independence and an ugly fight, where he could not bring himself to hold Alfred back, his little brother had left to America. They were on better terms now, of course--but the thought still arose from time to time. He had a big family, and they all lived in different places now, abandoning him. His once big family had all left him, going to Seychelles and Australia and those sorts of places.
When he was younger, he remembered asking why it always rained so much in England. The person said that it must have been because England cried so much--but that was absurd, Arthur had reasoned. Instead, perhaps England had been lonely, and this was his state on the inside.
But that was equally absurd too, he had to tell himself. After all, a land was a land, and it was just very reasonable that the air currents and the ocean waves and all the scientific science would explain the rain, all very well, all very nicely.