John Tucker John Tucker
Recommendations: 4

although slitherer is good, serpent may be better - in my opinion.

John Tucker John Tucker
Recommendations: 4

35mm should be side by side - no space.

John Tucker John Tucker
Recommendations: 4

richness instead of ricnes.

Please login or signup to add a comment to this paragraph.

Add comment   Close
Allen Clarke Allen Clarke
Recommendations: 18


Share this writing

Link to this writing

Start Writing

More from Allen Clarke

Stay Awhile
Hodge-Podge of Nursery
The Legend of Little Tree
Down Through the Years

More Short Stories

Rebekah King Rebekah King
Recommendations: 21
Jason Dookeran Jason Dookeran
Recommendations: 12
Elizabeth Tan Elizabeth Tan
Recommendations: 29
I Cannot Resist
Stephen Stribbell Stephen Stribbell
Recommendations: 10
Four Fundamentals of Making Acquaintances
Kaitlyne Beaudin Kaitlyne Beaudin
Recommendations: 25
She had a friend.

This is is just a character sketch of someone that may well exist somewhere in this world.

The old man sat and mused by river`s edge.His frail form was misted over by a creeping

fog now seeping in from off the icy waters.His face briefly illuminated in the faint

glow of his rolleo cig. He scrounged for moulding butts in the most unsanitary

places.Taking a slow drag, he hacked out some bloody phlegm. The old boy was in dire

straits.His ancient visage spoke of years embittered by harsh winters and even more

cruel poverty. His face seemed shrunken and bore the aspect of a dried - up Granny Smith

apple. His hair was silver and unevenly cut with a dull pair of scissors he had

retrieved from one of a hundred garbage cans he usually frequented.Long ago, he had

forsaken the alien idea of personal grooming. He couldn`t recollect as to when he last

bathed.`Tink it wus when it rained las`time.``he chuckled under his breath. Little much

gave him personal mirth these days. So, he secretly comforted himself with thoughts of

the good old days. He remembers the family he once had, over a hundred years ago, or so

it seemed.

A dirty Cleveland Indians ball cap overshadowed his silvery mop of coarse and greased hair. It was white with the frost of many winters. His shabby coat of worn melton was grimy and smelled of urine and body sweat.For this reason, he had few friends, except for those he occasionally shared a cheap bottle of muscatel with. He had lately started seeing snakes and one time he thought that one had started to converse with him. It seemed that he was starting to understand the strange language that issued from the mouth of the slithering serpent. It was then he knew he was slowly starting to crack. What was next?  The D.T`s? 1 comment

He stole a wizened hand deep into the folds of his coat of shab and retrieved an Old Port cigarillo stub. He secretly savoured the stale wine scent and began to salivate.  Striking up a wooden match he had found on the sidewalk, he teared a bit as the sulphur interrupted his moment of pathetic pleasure. He drew deeply and contentedly on the cigar stub as if he was sipping the wine that had long since departed from the object of his demented longing.

His life, if one could call it by that name, was harsh, to say the least.``Sleep, must sleep now. can`t eat, so, must sleep now.``he thought. The moment seemed of a primal nature, so basic in it`s meaning. Everywhere else in this dark city, people were retiring to their warm, plump beds. ``Bum``, as his friends knew him, would now seek shelter for another night in the cold, cold city. He had no wallet,he had no need for one; therefore he had no identification. So, if they found him in the morning, he would be just another stat in the early morning news. He would, at last, be famous. Again, he cackled, at the sad humour of such a tragic preponderance. The old boy had to be extra careful where he set up his cardboard box for the night. Suddenly, a sob of longing escaped from his parched throat.In a moment of time, he had a brief flash of childhood memory. It teased before him like some cruel display, before his weary eyes. It was like one of those 35mm. home movies with staccato,flickering, exaggerated images. He saw himself, joyful and playing on the beach with his parents. He saw himself biting down on a big, juicy burger, and...he snapped out of it, as the siren of a police car screamed by his humble abode. He peered wistfully into the tattered cardboard box, as the drizzle started to baptize his wrinkles of yore. In a moment of wry amusement,he had referred to the box as his portable hotel. The richness of his humour made him feel like a poor king, if only for a brief flash in time.``Must be wary of thugs``he said to himself. Before he succumbed to the Sandman, he prayed; and within moments, he was off to a better day and better times. 2 comments

Link to this writing

Share this writing

Next: Mother.