DeadBeat Dad - Part 3

DeadBeat Dad

·         A quarter of an hour passed as I walked along in the dark where the street lights shun orange overhead among the footpath. I stopped shortly underneath a broken, unlit street light. My phone vibrated. I picked it out of my back pocket. The light from the phone illuminated my face in the dark, pressing the button that unlocked my phone. I received a text message. I sighed depressingly as my mouth frowned with disappointment. My mood slightly altered a little bit. A text message from my deadbeat dad. One click of the button opened the message in which I read it. My mouth parted to inhale a long second of breath into my lungs. Fingers squeezed around the phone as I bit my jaws together. Throwing away my phone to the concrete ground with a loud grunt that woke up the neighbourhood. My phone now smashed to bits.

·         “THAT SON OF A BITCH!! How could he?! Who does he think he is?!” A fire burnt its way inside my chest. My breathing intensified. The shoulders grew stiff. My fingernails were digging deep into my palms. Another grunt launched itself out of my throat in which I screamed to the darkness around me. Kicking the remains of my broken phone case into the dark. I closed my eyes for a moment, rose my head up into the air, and counted the number of beats of my heart. I pictured myself now on the silent cruise across the Atlantic Ocean where the waves would whip the ship softly and rock me to sleep as I would lay there out in the sun with a glowing tan.

·         3…2…1, I counted back in my head. My fingers would slowly coil away and loosen their way out of my palms until the muscles in my body would end up calm. This way I wouldn’t let him win, that I wouldn't give him the satisfaction that he wanted. As soon as my thoughts lingered to that escapable dimension, the echoes inside my chest whispered in silence to me. I felt relaxed and at peace, opening my eyes once again.

·         If life has taught me one thing, it is that being angry all the time and frustrated is a waste of good energy, just like my deadbeat dad who’s already done that. Ever since my mother left him he has never been the same again. Always so miserable and depressed. Always trying to drag me down with him in the same boat. My life and my choices are my own, not for him to control anymore. It’s past time I reminded him of that.

·         Luckily there was a cool breeze that quieted my rage inside me, and let loose the restraints that was holding me. I look at my watch. 7:20pm. I was getting late. Then I looked towards the smashed pieces of my phone. The battery and sim card was intact. I bent down and crouched to retrieve it, and placed it in the back of my pants pocket. My whole body shuck from the cold temperature in the air. My arms were shaking. I could see the fogginess of my breath every time I exhaled. The tips of my fingers felt as though they were turning numb, so I rubbed them together a couple of times to create heat from the friction, and placed them deep into the dark cosiness of my open hoody’s pockets to keep them warm as I left for home.      

Part 2 of DeadBeat Dad Passage

DeadBeat Dad - Part 2

I felt as though the seconds were getting closer now as I thought of my plans for tonight. The guys had planned their own leaving do for tonight at the new night club opening in town, hoping to meet some new gals, get them drunk and get laid before their tour around the world. It would be the last time I would ever be with them before their long departure. Thinking to myself with a smile as my gaze dropped to the white tiled floor, I felt a small crack in my heart when the boys would leave me alone in my own world. That is why I had thought of my planned career for the future, to study travel and tourism so I could travel the world just like them, and be far away from my dead beat dad. As well as working in this dump, I need the money to start funding for my course. I have saved up almost two-thousand dollars, just a little under half way to fund for it. I may not be a holy man, but I pray every night to the mighty Lord that I have a successful future, and one day able to enjoy my life travelling around the world. My sole goal is to escape the cave of depression in which I call my home.  

Beep. Beep. Beep.

·        My watched beeped when it hit 7pm. I hadn’t even realised since I was just transported into my mind mulling over the hot sun on my milk brown skin where the sun would make me glow, the taste buds singing to me over the sweet flavours of exotic fruits that I would eat, the crystal clear waters that I would see, the ocean’s waves hitting the shores, and the skinny babes in swim suits running up and down the beach; this was the life for me. It was what I wanted. My desires in my head shuck my heart vigorously that vibrated my skin into giving me Goosebumps, and the warmth from the oven just silenced my body into paradise where I would just drift off.

·        7:05pm

·        Paul finished emptying a bag of frozen French fries into the friar.

·         “Jake”, he said, “Your shift is over.”  Now I was thinking of me setting sail across the ocean in a cruise ship like the titanic. Paul clanged his silver tongs against the oven that woke up from my thoughts.

·         “Oh, sorry. What did you say?” I asked.

·         “Your shift is over, buddy. Go have fun. I’ll see you on Monday.”

·        I looked at my watch. It now read 7:05pm. “Wow. I didn’t realise what time it was. See you on Monday, Paul.” I said my goodbyes, left my red hat on the counter and left. Paul saw my glum expression and the dark grey bags under my eyes. Paul was the best boss I had since he and I talked often about my problems at home, and he was the only who I knew who was kind enough to understand. He gave me longer breaks than usual than any other employee that worked for him and sometimes let me finish up early because of it. He was the only person who I would miss when I would leave for my course when I’m travelling around the world.  

First Proper Attempt At Show, Don't Tell - A Practise Short Story

This is my first proper attempt at writing out a short story that involves the scary process process of show, don't tell that makes other writers run away from it after hearing those two words, especially me at some point. Just trying to fixate your head around it gave me migrains and hypnotized my brain like a zombie of how on earth am I going to combat this problem if I ever want to be a writer. First of all, it's best to get it over and done with by just having a simple short attempt to get your mode of thinking around, and then adapt your writing to that adjustment. From the moment of what I was going to say and plan what to write, the words easily began to form in my head and then onto the page. Instead of repeating and telling a story, I found that showing what the story is and describing the character's actions and feelings, it alters the perspective in which you tell your story in a way that becomes unpredictable because your simply avoiding that silly rule of trying to control by not telling your audience of what that story is about. I feel as though I have learnt something from this, and this is just the beginning for me as an aspiring writer. I now am one step closer in learning and progressing my writing abilities. All I have to do is practise and observe.

Here's a short passage of what "Shows" a story rather than telling it. It might not be perfect, but it's a start. Have a look. At the moment it's unfinished, but it's just an example. It's the opening of my short story.

Deadbeat Dad

·         Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock…

·         The hands on the clock were just insulting me now as my gaze looked up towards the clock. 15 minutes before my shift ended at 7pm. I couldn’t stand another second working here, at KFC, it just wasn’t me. My name is Jake and I am just 16-years-old. I shouldn’t even have to work here but I have to. I have to reset my mind and wake up every morning and stand in front of the mirror to tell myself that you have to do this, you’re the only who can now. I now look at my watch and release out a tension of hot air hidden in my lungs from an exhausting day at work. My legs were feeling like tooth picks from standing around. I sighed again. Still nothing. It was only 6:46pm. How boring? I now leaned and pressed my back against the hot oven where they placed the chicken to keep it freshly warm. The warmth from it soothes my skin, sings to my bones and relaxes me. I now whistled away in the lonely restaurant with my eyes wandering away around the room, trying to relieve myself of the boredom. A deep sigh exhaled out through my nasal passages. The only thing that kept me company was my boss, Paul, working behind the fryer as he poured the uncooked chicken as I listened to the oils crackling against it when he placed them in. The fresh odours of fried chicken that made my tongue and nostrils dismal with the same scent every day. It grew old. The odours from the restaurant reminded me of my Deadbeat Dad who smelled of it. Just matching him to the smells made me realise how pathetic he was. A man whose son has to work to pay his bills. My fingers began to squeeze at my arms. I just had to keep thinking of something else that wouldn’t make me angry. My friends, my career, for instance. Those thoughts made me mull over the future, erecting a smile on my face. The success of my future overpowered the smell of KFC chicken in the room. My fingers were now relaxed, nestling on my red uniform that they made me wear. Now I looked up. The hands on the clock were now pointing at 6:56pm.    

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Thank You For Your Time.