flash fiction 11





Left eye has gone shut again. The dust kicking early for a mornin, lips are dry, throat is dry. What a beautiful sunrise. The man wakes up to the same disdainful glares of the patrons in the concrete jungle. Stay still long enough and the predators will often prattle on into their mobile phones or one another. For a moment, he blends in, a simple fixture of the office building, a worn out beggar willing to accept his fate. his face is a road-map of scars, wrinkles and dirt.

he catches the sunlight from his one good eye. smiling, then goes back to sleep.


On the underarm is a petunia flower. her mother was a gardener. On her chest is a large gem. Her father smuggled children out of a country exploiting their labor. With a run of her jet-black hair she steps onto the side-walk from her pill-box apartment building. a man whistles at her. she’s wearing black. black tank-top. black slacks and not so black boots with years of scuff marks along the leather. in the moments of pain, a release. tonight another scene, another play to expose her tight navel and spread her artwork to the leering gaze of adoring fans.

all if they paid well.


the scent, familiar fragrance. left eye still shut tight. a crust between the wrinkled eyelids as the light clop of boots approach him. shes a kind woman, covered in art, exploring a story he reads as she leaves him, a cup of coffee and a muffin. once. every morning she stops, she smiles with her large earrings. always in black. she murmurs words of encouragement. sweet girl. keeps him going.


the barista gave another weak smile, child like remarks in an attempt to please and she responds with her sweetest smile. “thanks for the coffee,” shes stepping out of the shop, “I love your muffins!” the man is at the corner. he lays there often, but many nights he disappears but always comes down to the corner she passes. the first time she passed, he stared at her clear canvas of skin before drifting into a deep slumber. today, his eye has gotten worse, the stench of his old clothes a pungent toil on her nose. she bears him. he accepts the small token of a warm drink and food.

“My dad would be your age. I lost him a long time ago.” he lowers his head, nodding as his thin lips gulp at the cup. a ravenous hunger devours the muffin into crumbs before he reclines satisfied.

“dont give up okay?” she’s off to make money in her own way, by her own means, with her own talent.


His daughter is a sweet girl. sauntering off to art-shows, stripping under the high beams and the staccato of the photographers rifle capturing a glimpse of her art. This is a closer way, this is a way to be in her life. resting along the pavement now. perhaps a few months left. do good girl, do good.


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