Is an ironic story about the price of life. I wrote it when I was 14-15–don’t really remember.
Well what about the price of life? How much is life?” Mr. Welp asked his history class during a current event discussion.
“You can’t put a price on life,” Shelly Macky piped. Blonde, blue eyed, one would think she was a partier but Shelly was extremely conservative. She went to church every Sunday, despised pro-choice activists, believed the government would never lie to its people, was a vegetarian, and thought that everyone should be the same.
“Well, what do you call war?” retorted Richie Love, a boy clothed in black and considered satanic by the high school populace. Richie was the opposite of Shelly. He didn’t attend church because he had concluded that one could talk to God whenever one wanted to. He believed the church was a fraudulent institution. As for the government? Well, the government lied to its people, used its people, and repressed its people with censorship and security laws. He believed the constitution had been written for a reason. He believed that women, each woman, should have the choice to have a child or not. And, he ate meat and loved it.
Something so small had a heartbeat so strong.
Times were tight. She couldn’t remember a time when they hadn’t been short on money. This was different. It wasn’t about her anymore. It was about the mass of cells that were developing in her, those foreign things. It would become a baby. A baby meant bills; it meant responsibility, more money. Money she didn’t have. It had already cost her monetary value.
She hadn’t bled, so she’d gone to the store and stared at those fateful boxes. So many to choose from. She’d bought them before, this time was different. Just standing there had been different. It wasn’t quick like the previous times. She had chosen carefully, read the labels, calculated the sales then scurried off to the register.
A short story I wrote back in high school. The assignment was to create a short piece of fiction based on a news article.
Trisha Marr was twenty-five years old and had been having a very bad month. Yes, month, not day, not week, not morning or night, month. In the beginning of the month Trisha had lost her job with the telemarketing company, not to mention she had also lost her purse on the subway. Her money was gone. Her parents were in France with their cell phones turned off and any possible means of communication had been cut off when Trisha was evicted from her apartment (due to a few months of no payment). Luckily, Trisha had had a boyfriend at the beginning of the month.