Homeless

Ever looking for a new subject to write about? Something to get the creative juices flowing? The following is a short piece written for my writing group as a writing prompt. I had some great entries from it and wanted to share the prompt with you guys!

Stop. Close your eyes. And imagine.

The cool wind blows, burrowing deep into your bones. You shiver and pull the thin blanket tighter around your shoulders. Still the air seeps through the tattered material which is full of once small holes that grow larger every day. Winter will be here soon.

A rush of warm air blows up from beneath you. You smile as it replaces the harsh winds, but crinkle your nose at the stench, even if you’re used to it now. At least it doesn’t make you gag anymore. You’ve slept on this grate for nearly five months.

The air vanishes and the cool wind blows once more. You’re thankful for the dirty woolen hat on your head. You’re thankful you found it in the trash one month before.

People pass you on the street, never looking in your direction, perhaps tossing a coin or two. Not much, but you take it. Whatever you can in order to get by. Whatever you can to survive.

Reaching into your coat pocket, you pull out a cheap bottle of whiskey. Only a quarter of the bottle left. You fight the urge to drink it, knowing it could be your last for some time. But eventually, you give in. You have already saved it long enough.

As you gulp down the remainder of the alcohol you hear a woman groan with disgust. You glance up and see her. Well dressed, and glaring at you. She’s clutching the arm of a young man. She motions in your direction.

“Disgusting.” Her voice is shrill. “Why doesn’t the city get rid of them? They pollute our streets. Nothing but druggies and drunks.”

They disappear into the theatre, the woman complaining the entire time. The man seems bored and uninterested. He seems to care little for what she says.

You lean against the cold brick wall, pulling your knees to your chest. A single tear escapes and runs down your dirty cheek as the whisky warms your belly and seeps into your bloodstream.

She’s wrong, you tell yourself. You’re better than that. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know what happened.

This is your story.






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