The storm had flushed the streets, expunging the city of years of accumulated garbage, but it had simply been carried to where the river narrowed. The homeless had been similarly relocated, and now waded waist-deep in swirling muck, picking though the floating trash. Building mounds of sad treasures.
I stood with Mark on the bridge, watching the winnowers gather their pathetic harvest.
“Look at that filth,” he said, “it’s disgusting.”
I scanned his face, wondering if he referred to washed up rubbish or the unfortunates collecting it. I kept silent, unsure if the question reflected on him or on me.
(Word count 100)
Another Friday Fictioneer’s 100 word challenge with a prompt put forward from Rochelle’s blog (this link will take you to all the stories). I hope you enjoy this story – once I thought of the word detritus, I couldn’t get past the image of scavengers hunting through the garbage. The rest… well poverty rarely encourages the empathy it should.