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Pop, not Grandpa, not Great Grandpa, but Pop, wakes up in the morning to the sound of his great granddaughter singing in the shower, and his grandson grinning from his spot in the doorway.

“Still not dead yet, Pop?” He remarks, giving his coffee a sip.

Pop grumbles and flips him the bird, pulling on his overalls. He takes his medication and heads to his own bathroom, dammit, he needs privacy. Not easy making it to a hundred years, after all.

As he takes a shower, he thinks about how disappointing it is that humans haven’t grown gills, or that there are no cities underwater. He spent his whole life doing all the right damn things, but everything and nothing was exactly the same, apart from technological advancements. It makes him think about his granddaughter, a luckless recluse, who seemed more than happy staying home after school to play video games than actually socializing. She seemed more than happy to absorb herself in the realm of fantasy, and today was the day he was going to join her.

Right after the party, which is grandson throws. They all sit around and talk about the good days, tease him, while the grandchildren retreat to his great granddaughter’s room to play games. By the time the party's over, he goes into her room and asks her to show him the ropes. She gives him a quizzical brow. More often than not, the girl didn’t know what to say when it came to Pop. His grandson had moved in, daughter in tow, after her mother died and took the house. He enjoyed the company, at least, and it’s what his late wife, Miriam, would have wanted.

“It’s called…” And that’s when the journey begins.

Suddenly, he’s no longer Pop, but a battle maiden named Freyja fighting for independence in a world he’s only just met. By the time he’s an hour into the game-play, his granddaughter looks downtrodden, chewing on the ends of her nails nervously as she ponders, he guesses, a thought.

“Are you scared of dying, Pop?” She asks. She’s fourteen. A curious age, indeed.

“I’m too old to have another existential crisis, kid.” Is his only reply as he sends a bandit to his grave. She stares at him with wide, doe eyes. “But no, I reckon I’m not.”

His character casts a spell and dives under water, looking for gold. She watches him for a while, distance between them closing by her move, consciously or unconsciously, he doesn’t know.

“I’m scared of dying.” She admits.

“You’re too young to worry about that.” He says. “Worry about your characters dying.”

She giggles and he counts it as a victory. 

As he crawls under the covers that night, his grandson appears in the doorway again.

“Still not dead yet, Pop?”

“Still not dead.” He grunts out in defeat, but not without a smile. 


August 03, 2019 05:55

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