Maybe We’re All To Blame (Tidbit Thursday 1/30/14)

Maybe We’re All To Blame

The fates could be damned. How could anyone put any faith in those who think they have any right to determine anothers path. They’re selfish, plain and simple. They suffer from a superiority complex and to make it worse, they set the poor bastard who first coined the term down that road.

Their most recent victim, Jenny, did her best to mask the months of homelessness on her body. But a truck stop shower and clothes dunked into a river could only do so much. A caterer couldn’t be too picky, could they?

She stood outside the owner’s office, too nervous to take advantage of the ugly orange pleather chairs. She looked down at her bell bottoms, hoping her crocheted shawl hid the tears on her thighs. All the protests and stances began to weigh on her. She failed to save the world, now she was just another hippie who escaped the comune.

Shame crept into her eyes as she thought about her graduationg class dying in Vietnam. How dare she even consider her life a struggle? Maybe it was justice.

The nights laying in his arms, then hers, then someone strange and intriguing had to end eventually. The minutes that were discarded so carelessly on trips and drunken hours, had to come back and stretch themselves as she begged for change. She could always go back to it all, pretend she believed they were free, like the others did.

The pressed wood door that seperated her from her interviewer looked still, regardless of what the fake grain decal suggested. The faintest sound of a conversation clawed out through the half inch space between the floor and the barrier. Jenny tried to focus on it, but her ears couldn’t block out the sound of the steel, beastly cars, all curves and lead paint, outside. A hundred different versions of the ongoing conversation ran through Jenny’s mind. Each one worse than the next.

Every couple of rewrites she’d be distracted by the equally blurry rendition of a song outside. why couldn’t the fates have shoved a guitar into her hands? Should could’ve been the next Janis Joplin, even if that meant doubling her habit to two packs a day to create the rasp.

Finally the door swung open. A woman exited first. her skirt bounced around her ankles with each step. A crown of Spring flowers encircled her head. Jenny couldn’t imagine the woman without them. They looked like she was born with them, the same way someone would be born with green eyes.

Even though Jenny couldn’t imagine the woman looking any different she herself looked down at herself as if surprised by her garments. A pin of hope drilled drilled into Jenny’s chest. The fates had led this woman down a similar path. She had just as much of a chance.

A balding man followed the woman out.

“Alright we’ll get you a uniform tomorrow, we got a big job coming up soon. A big shindig at the beach.” He said.

The woman said nothing to the man as she shook his hand, Instead her head turned towards Jenny.

“I’m sorry.”

Damn the fates.


Alright, what ya think of this week’s story? Like always, if you have an idea for what I should write next let me know on twitter using #tbsuggest and follow me @joncperson 


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