The white wasteland. On this odd planet, the heat of it's sun does not break the atmosphere. The blue sky and sunny day is contrasted by cold, unlivable conditions.
A mother, wailing in hysterics. A father, bleeding from many cuts on his face, several times beaten already.
We LIVED on Sutton beach. There were days where I knew the coarse sand and cool water much better than I did my own home.
On a hot summer day, they dance through the concrete jungle. They glide to and fro' power lines.
Windshield wipers raced left and right as rain battered his old Honda Civic. It was a cold and rainy day as Pete drove from Georgia to New York.
**A brief note from the writer:** My beginnings as a writer came from a strong sense of fondness towards all things fiction. This being said, I will still, from time to time, write short stories. Short stories will not come with any type of regularity or warning. I will just post them whenever I feel I have one worth sharing. "Window Seat," the one you're about to read, was one of my very early short stories. I wrote it years ago and have somewhat of a nostalgic attachment to it. Enjoy.