On summer afternoons you can smell the homeless. An aggressive funk of shit and cheap wine; a fermenting stench, growing in neglect and heat.
On early Autumn evenings you see the dirty false sunsets as barrel fires bleed a spurting orange glow. Drunks ripen in booze around these trash candles; sharing heat, misery, oblivion.
Winter nights bring a harvest of the unhomed. The unprotected poor perish; exposed to weather, to indifference. Frost glitters under street-lights, the sparkle of broken glass and dead eyes.
Spring morning-time; for renewal, for replanting. A fresh crop of homeless take root, nourished by the bottle.
THAT’S RIGHT – IT’S TIME FOR FRIDAY FICTIONEERS!
Well, I’m guessing there isn’t too much mystery about the inspiration to this week’s story. Not sure if it’s got a beginning, middle, and end to it, but I think it’s reasonably well polished otherwise. I have had a few beers though, so I might be completely deluded.
As always, very interested in what you have to say – let me know what you think.
Check here for the other stories (and maybe give your own a try).