The Choice
by Donnie (Tobie) Denome
They were called shanty girls and they were
poor. She was the oldest of the bunch, although
she hadn’t a clue of her actual age. The beautiful
of the city beyond her home on 7th Avenue
called to her whenever she went out to work.
Every night, she hesitated to go back, fearing
that something would kill her in her slumber
and she would never see the shining glamour of
the rich district again.
She cleaned dishes in a fancy restaurant near
the governor’s mansion. Out the window in the
upstairs kitchen she could see the hovercars
floating down the roadway. Sometimes the chef
would let her take the garbage to the dump on
his bicycle. It was a thrill riding, even if the
true patrons of the streets would stare at her
and scoff.
Each night, though, she came home to care
for a shack full of children. Her father was
dead from a gas raid and her mother had been
broken by this. Her brothers were off fighting
for the country. Even the oldest of the remaining
children could not help much. So she lived,
divided between abject poverty and the rich
illusion of a servant’s life.
There was Joshua, who loved her and whom she
loved back. His father was rich and so he could
have anything from finery to a life ruling over
scum like her. He did not care for that, though.
She did not know what he saw in her but she let
him buy her sweets or jeweled hair ties which
she tucked into her pockets to take home or to
hock on the streets.
One day, Joshua met her on a dump run. She
was a sight to behold: crawling with parasites,
hair splattered with mud, her apron so ragged
parts of it tore off as she pedaled. He smiled at
her, despite this, and called out her name. She
approached. He held out a perfect silver ring, a
silent marriage proposal.
She stopped. Joshua and she, they were lovers.
If he had been a shanty boy, she would have
said yes. If she was a rich girl, she would have
said yes. She knew that if she agreed she could
stop washing dishes just to bring home a bit of
old bread, for 7th avenue would no longer be
her home. He stared at her and she considered
it.
And she remembered her father, killed trying
to rescue people in the gas raids. Her brothers,
dead on the battlefields. She saw her mother’s
serene face as she died the night before of a
broken heart. Poverty killed her family. How
was it fair, then, for her to escape its grasp so
easily, to leave for a life of pitifully smiling at
shanty girls?
He took her in his arms as she sobbed. “Please
say yes. Please.” She lifted her head and wept
harder, torn between all she had ever wanted
and all she had ever known.
by Donnie (Tobie) Denome
They were called shanty girls and they were
poor. She was the oldest of the bunch, although
she hadn’t a clue of her actual age. The beautiful
of the city beyond her home on 7th Avenue
called to her whenever she went out to work.
Every night, she hesitated to go back, fearing
that something would kill her in her slumber
and she would never see the shining glamour of
the rich district again.
She cleaned dishes in a fancy restaurant near
the governor’s mansion. Out the window in the
upstairs kitchen she could see the hovercars
floating down the roadway. Sometimes the chef
would let her take the garbage to the dump on
his bicycle. It was a thrill riding, even if the
true patrons of the streets would stare at her
and scoff.
Each night, though, she came home to care
for a shack full of children. Her father was
dead from a gas raid and her mother had been
broken by this. Her brothers were off fighting
for the country. Even the oldest of the remaining
children could not help much. So she lived,
divided between abject poverty and the rich
illusion of a servant’s life.
There was Joshua, who loved her and whom she
loved back. His father was rich and so he could
have anything from finery to a life ruling over
scum like her. He did not care for that, though.
She did not know what he saw in her but she let
him buy her sweets or jeweled hair ties which
she tucked into her pockets to take home or to
hock on the streets.
One day, Joshua met her on a dump run. She
was a sight to behold: crawling with parasites,
hair splattered with mud, her apron so ragged
parts of it tore off as she pedaled. He smiled at
her, despite this, and called out her name. She
approached. He held out a perfect silver ring, a
silent marriage proposal.
She stopped. Joshua and she, they were lovers.
If he had been a shanty boy, she would have
said yes. If she was a rich girl, she would have
said yes. She knew that if she agreed she could
stop washing dishes just to bring home a bit of
old bread, for 7th avenue would no longer be
her home. He stared at her and she considered
it.
And she remembered her father, killed trying
to rescue people in the gas raids. Her brothers,
dead on the battlefields. She saw her mother’s
serene face as she died the night before of a
broken heart. Poverty killed her family. How
was it fair, then, for her to escape its grasp so
easily, to leave for a life of pitifully smiling at
shanty girls?
He took her in his arms as she sobbed. “Please
say yes. Please.” She lifted her head and wept
harder, torn between all she had ever wanted
and all she had ever known.