It was a Sunday afternoon; the sun was out in the open, bathing the world in a warm, rich lather. At a distance, seagulls were devouring leftovers near a concession stand located in an extravagant amusement park. You could hear the birds cawing and squawking to one another.
Not far from the amusement park was a sandy beach, occupied with thousands of relaxing people. Children were preoccupied with building sand castles and sand pies, while others were utilizing the warming sunlight or had delved into the deep, crisp waters.
Somewhere in between the two landmarks, was a thin woman walking across the boardwalk that lodged between the locations. She was moderately short in stature with fair skin and gaunt cheeks. The woman wore her shoulders slumped and her head drooped downward. Her frail hands were positioned into her jean pockets, securely covered by the fabric. Her tawny hair blew left and right, back and forth as the wind pushed the strands around her small head.
At midpoint down the boardwalk, the scrawny woman paused. She slid her pale hands from her pockets, and assumed a spot on the railing of the boardwalk facing the beach. Her eyes appeared to glisten, giving the impression of a far away mindset. The woman's eyes focused on a young father, burying his small toddler under the sand. The toddler boy squealed with delight with every scoop of sand placed upon him.
What a strange brat, she thought tentatively, just as an older, scrubby looking man threw a red plastic cup on the ground and walked away.
"Hey, you old bastard!" She fumed. He didn't turn around, or even acknowledge the woman. Prick, she retorted mentally, before climbing over the railing and stomping over to the place where the cup lay. She picked up the littered trash and brought it back to the boardwalk, where a trashcan was conveniently located.
When she returned to the boardwalk, her spot was occupied by a middle-aged man. His hair was salt-and-pepper black. His strong jaw was covered by dark stubble and his eyes were colored a stormy brown. He wore casual attire: jeans, a loose-fitting shirt ,and sandals.
"Dad," she acknowledged, giving a curt nod.
"Deb, honey, you got the...money?" He anxiously eyed the woman.
Deb reached into her back pocket, pulled out a leather wallet and brought out a decent bundle of bills. She placed the money into his now open palm and went to turn away, before a strong male hand grabbed at her forearm.
"Thank you; you don't know how much I appreciate it."
Deb scoffed, followed by rolling her eyes. "Don't think I don't know that you'll just blow it on booze."
Once, maybe twice, every three weeks she would get a phone call from her father. It was always the same reasons and the same excuses. The last time that Deb could recall her father calling her for anything other than money was on her birthday, six years prior. On that occasion, his girlfriend of the month had pressured him into it.
She ripped away from her father's grip and stomped off, leaving her booze adoring father standing on the boardwalk. She heard her father calling her name, but she didn't give him a second glance. Her feet carried her back to the place she called home. Deb's home, a one bedroom apartment, was on the third floor at the end of the hall.
When she entered her homely residence, a small, wrinkly, white English bulldog attacked her feet. The dog jumped, rolled over, and jumped once again, attempting to gain Deb's complete attention.
"Jack! Alright, Alright!" Deb shoved the dog off of her leg. Jack began a low bark, and Deb dug into the cupboards of the kitchen and pulled out some food and put it into his bowl.
The dog greedily ate his food, while Deb noticed the blinking lights on her phone, which signified new messages. Deb kicked her shoes off and pushed them to the side and decided to check the messages. She wasn't surprised when the messages were all from bill collectors and advertisers.
With a big huff of oxygen, Deb lazily sat down on her beige couch and flicked on the television using the remote. It was barely three in the afternoon, and she was sitting in her house watching re-runs of a show she didn't even enjoy.
Deb was used to this routine. Every day, she'd come home to her overzealous bulldog. She would feed him, check any messages left on her voicemail, and retire to the couch where she would watch television until she couldn't take it anymore; she would go into her kitchen and make herself a measly meal consisting of broccoli, white rice, and plain chicken; or some variation of it. After dinner, she would shower, dress and depart to bed.
Alternation just wasn't part of Deb's vocabulary. Her life was simple routine, and she couldn't be happier about it. She loved her job, working as a low-pay magazine company's secretary. She worked at a nine to five pace, five days out of the week. Every day she arrived to a neat array of compulsively organized lifestyle. She wouldn't change it for the life of her own, or so she would like to think.
Not far from the amusement park was a sandy beach, occupied with thousands of relaxing people. Children were preoccupied with building sand castles and sand pies, while others were utilizing the warming sunlight or had delved into the deep, crisp waters.
Somewhere in between the two landmarks, was a thin woman walking across the boardwalk that lodged between the locations. She was moderately short in stature with fair skin and gaunt cheeks. The woman wore her shoulders slumped and her head drooped downward. Her frail hands were positioned into her jean pockets, securely covered by the fabric. Her tawny hair blew left and right, back and forth as the wind pushed the strands around her small head.
At midpoint down the boardwalk, the scrawny woman paused. She slid her pale hands from her pockets, and assumed a spot on the railing of the boardwalk facing the beach. Her eyes appeared to glisten, giving the impression of a far away mindset. The woman's eyes focused on a young father, burying his small toddler under the sand. The toddler boy squealed with delight with every scoop of sand placed upon him.
What a strange brat, she thought tentatively, just as an older, scrubby looking man threw a red plastic cup on the ground and walked away.
"Hey, you old bastard!" She fumed. He didn't turn around, or even acknowledge the woman. Prick, she retorted mentally, before climbing over the railing and stomping over to the place where the cup lay. She picked up the littered trash and brought it back to the boardwalk, where a trashcan was conveniently located.
When she returned to the boardwalk, her spot was occupied by a middle-aged man. His hair was salt-and-pepper black. His strong jaw was covered by dark stubble and his eyes were colored a stormy brown. He wore casual attire: jeans, a loose-fitting shirt ,and sandals.
"Dad," she acknowledged, giving a curt nod.
"Deb, honey, you got the...money?" He anxiously eyed the woman.
Deb reached into her back pocket, pulled out a leather wallet and brought out a decent bundle of bills. She placed the money into his now open palm and went to turn away, before a strong male hand grabbed at her forearm.
"Thank you; you don't know how much I appreciate it."
Deb scoffed, followed by rolling her eyes. "Don't think I don't know that you'll just blow it on booze."
Once, maybe twice, every three weeks she would get a phone call from her father. It was always the same reasons and the same excuses. The last time that Deb could recall her father calling her for anything other than money was on her birthday, six years prior. On that occasion, his girlfriend of the month had pressured him into it.
She ripped away from her father's grip and stomped off, leaving her booze adoring father standing on the boardwalk. She heard her father calling her name, but she didn't give him a second glance. Her feet carried her back to the place she called home. Deb's home, a one bedroom apartment, was on the third floor at the end of the hall.
When she entered her homely residence, a small, wrinkly, white English bulldog attacked her feet. The dog jumped, rolled over, and jumped once again, attempting to gain Deb's complete attention.
"Jack! Alright, Alright!" Deb shoved the dog off of her leg. Jack began a low bark, and Deb dug into the cupboards of the kitchen and pulled out some food and put it into his bowl.
The dog greedily ate his food, while Deb noticed the blinking lights on her phone, which signified new messages. Deb kicked her shoes off and pushed them to the side and decided to check the messages. She wasn't surprised when the messages were all from bill collectors and advertisers.
With a big huff of oxygen, Deb lazily sat down on her beige couch and flicked on the television using the remote. It was barely three in the afternoon, and she was sitting in her house watching re-runs of a show she didn't even enjoy.
Deb was used to this routine. Every day, she'd come home to her overzealous bulldog. She would feed him, check any messages left on her voicemail, and retire to the couch where she would watch television until she couldn't take it anymore; she would go into her kitchen and make herself a measly meal consisting of broccoli, white rice, and plain chicken; or some variation of it. After dinner, she would shower, dress and depart to bed.
Alternation just wasn't part of Deb's vocabulary. Her life was simple routine, and she couldn't be happier about it. She loved her job, working as a low-pay magazine company's secretary. She worked at a nine to five pace, five days out of the week. Every day she arrived to a neat array of compulsively organized lifestyle. She wouldn't change it for the life of her own, or so she would like to think.
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