Walking along the city streets, wandering and wondering, at the many improvised beds I see of the homeless campers in the streets.
A flattened cardboard box used as a mat, paper and plastic bags to keep out the damp, and layers and layers of old clothes, these for the improvised beds of the homeless campers in the streets.
Ignoring the incessant traffic that rolls by, the midnight partiers who weave through their improvised dormitory, like drunken warders in a private school or those who take their dogs for their last evening spin, but not the police who sometimes round-up the homeless campers in the streets.
In the silence I watch the faces of those who’ve made it as they look on with disgust society’s human failures, who didn’t quite make the grade in our consumer heaven of bubble and bust economy and I see barely hidden fear, that one day they too might become homeless campers in the streets.
It’s bedtime … and I have a bed and home waiting for me, with a mattress and feathered duvet, no traffic, no dogs, no police nor drunks will disturb my rest, but maybe in my dreams I’ll see homeless campers in the streets.
© G.s.k. ‘15
This prose poem was written for: Five Sentence Fiction – Bedtime
In the darkness of time, covered in cobwebs and dust, an old man sits inside an abandoned house.
Reflecting upon the years that had sped past him, wondering if it had been worthwhile, indeed he pondered, should he keep going on, his anxiety grew.
Visions of abandonment came to him, how often he’d felt alone, how often he’d left without a word; now here he stood in an old abandoned house full of fear.
Awakening suddenly from his dusty dream, fear and anxiety made his heart pound painfully, his lips were dry and a tear trickled down his cheek.
Looking around him, he saw bright sunshine stream into his room, making dust motes swirl like dervishes before his eyes – he rolled over and kissed his wife.
Jingua was up at five thirty, had eaten her breakfast of tea and rice and was on the road to work. She sat with other girls, sometimes younger other times older, sewing sequins on party dresses. At noon and in the evening more tea and rice with maybe some fish or vegetables. She was asleep by nine. She knew she was lucky, as her mother always said, “At least you’ve never suffered hunger.”
Five Sentence Fiction – Hunger
Five Sentence Fiction: this weeks word prompt is: Clutch.
Running down the street shouting, clutching my suitcase in one hand and my umbrella in the other, I tried to get the bus driver’s attention. The last passenger descended as I reached the back-end of the vehicle.
Wow, I though, I’ve made it but the bus started rolling forward, my shouts went unheard.
Resigned, I began to walk home, cutting through the countryside. As I arrived in my village, the bus passed me on its return trip into town.