A July 30th

Something quite uninteresting happened today.
 As is usual for him, Peter, along with his dog, Snuff, sat
 on the sofa to watch the morning news. Cynthia, the new 
blonde news cast, flirted lightly with the camera, just enough, 
though, to see her flustered cheeks ignite. She had only been 
on the TV for approximately 2 weeks and had been slightly 
aroused by the thought of having thousands of viewers stare 
blankly at her. That day, Peter noticed she wore a new pretty
 pink top that was low enough to show the entrance to her cleavage.
 He could not help but stare at the movements of her bright chest as 
they moved up and down with her breathing pauses. Cynthia read 
the white and blue screen that was feeding her the news. It was a 
language encoded in times new roman, excellent for speed reading. 
She really didn’t know what she was saying. She just blankly imitated 
and deciphered the letter’s sounds, so skillfully, it seemed memorized. 
By the end of her segment, her camara’s light turned off, indicating a 
change in programming. Immediately she realized, she had been done, 
reclined on her seat and pressed her index fingers to her temples. 
Only fragments of words remained in her head. “I’m gonna have to 
watch the evening news today!” she said quirkily to her co-anchor man. 
He had been experienced in an extra 6 years. He ignored her comment 
and resumed rereading his pitch. She managed to remember certain words 
of what she said. Words like…president ...representatives….murder…police…votes. 
All in all, it was the same every single morning. She could not tell whether it had 
been yesterday’s or today’s thoughts. On the other hand, she ignored all feelings 
of inferiority, labeled them as unsuccessful banter, as so deemed her current night 
table book: The religion of success, by Onimo Irisaki. Onimo Irisaki had been 
writing self help books since the 70’s. Targetting middle aged women, he opened 
his once Japanese romantic novel genre to the evermore expanding section of self help 
books. He started writing books that allegedly held the key to happiness, success, 
long life, and better sex; but by the late 80’s he moved his focus to a more metaphysical
 realm and wrote about experiences with angels. His books had a quick and fleeting
 success, sold in most convenience stores and super markets; but he reached his
 record low when he started focusing on his religious belief on Babba. Onimo 
expressed his stance to the local K-Mart shopper saying:  “When man starts 
revealing the truth of his success, the truest of the motives for his movement, 
it is much less appealing than the comfortable silences that appeal more to the
 imaginations of individual minds. Whether their source is a god or a magical fairy,
 it doesn’t matter, because the realization of the ludicrous is only found when it is
 looked upon outwardly.” Cynthia had found her book in an old box she kept of her
 mother’s belongings. Her mother, Bethany, had been living only 3 miles away from
 her current home, but was left aging in a small elderly home next to a green lake. 
Bethany was used to sitting down in her small balcony, looking through tear stained 
pictures of Cynthia when she was small. Today, she was sitting down in the dining 
hall, watching her daughter in the morning news. She grinned blatantly at all the folk 
sitting in the hall. “That’s my girl”, she would say, her charm only to be subdued by
 the unbelieving smiles of the bored nurses. One of the nurse’s names was Lydia. 
Lydia had been engaged for the past 2 years. Her husband to be, Peter, had promised 
to marry her as soon as he was able to buy a house for the both of them. She remained 
satisfied with the thought of her fiancé desiring to maintain her. She was sick and tired
 of working at the old folk’s home, mostly, because at her age, most women were already 
carrying out their lives successfully with children or perhaps a small career, but at 36, 
she had only been able to hold 2 to 3 small jobs that seemed more like shores to her. 
She had started studying medicine at the local college, but failed her nurse’s exam 
and now worked part time as a trainee at the home. Sometimes, she would cry at night, 
wondering where her life would take her from then. Peter would hold her gently 
against his chest and whisper: “Don’t worry, lamb, wherever you will go, I will
 help you out. As soon as I get a job, I will pay your way through college, feed your
 little head, and send our kid’s through school.” Little Lydia’s eyes would light up at the
 thought of having children. Unfortunately, today, Peter was late for the 3rd consecutive
 time to a job interview at Wal-Mart. He had lost track of time watching Cynthia Rivers
 accidentally mumble out loud: “The president at gun point. Murder…voters call police…”.
 The hysteria reached far ends of the city. She would be replaced the next day by someone
 far less attractive. Peter and Snuff were greatly troubled.