Sunday NYC
Sunday-NYC
Oh man, where did I end up last night? Shit. What time is it? I don’t have a watch. Oh great another drunken night. I was a teenage waste case; just another face behind a bottle of vodka, wasting away in the forgotten alleyways of Brooklyn.
The streets were cold in the early New York City morning. Taxis could be heard in the distance, of corporate suits getting ready to seize the day. The sun was raising its head between sky scrapers winking a hello at the forsaken.
Dumpster children scurried about to hide in the shadows like bloodsuckers that lurk in the night. They all hid from the watchful eye of lady sunshine, knowing if she caught them they might turn to dust. I was among them.
Drenched in sweat, lousy with hooch, I stumbled past sidewalk urchins digging through the trash for any morsel of breakfast. In my pocket was seven measly dollars, the leftovers of my weekly allowance.
I bought cigarettes and brandy from a trench coat clown on the street. With the dollar fifty left I bought a day old bagel at my favorite coffee shop. The owner was nice. On the coldest days of the year he would let me sit in here without buying anything. He’d let me sit and I would write songs in my head about the people I saw walk in.
There was this woman who would come in wearing gaudy costume jewelry. She sat at the bar and ordered a frappe mocha and would wait, sometimes hours, for the lost lover who never came. I always wanted to talk to her to find out her story. One day she stopped coming. I saw in the newspaper that she jumped in front of one of the trains at Union Station. What a terrible way to end it.
Death was common in NYC. I didn’t have any friends, everyone my age in the neighborhood was either a druggie or in juvenile detention. I often walked by doped up cherubs on the streets too out of it to know their own name. I felt sorry for them.
I shouldn’t. I was no better. I was just a kid wondering without a cause, getting shitfaced off gin and tonic, with no hope and no future. Just a kid no one cared about. That was me Michael Hatchers, age fifteen.
I wasn’t homeless. I had a bed in a house in Queens with a nice family. I was never there. They never cared. When I wasn’t in school I was wondering the streets looking for something better than this meaningless existence.
Story: Honey Birds
Title: That is love
Rating: PG
Challenge: Maple Walnut #4 off the record, Chokeberry #2 When I was younger I believed
Toppings/Extras:
Word count: 397
Summary: This is a writing sample I have been working on.
Note:
Oh man, where did I end up last night? Shit. What time is it? I don’t have a watch. Oh great another drunken night. I was a teenage waste case; just another face behind a bottle of vodka, wasting away in the forgotten alleyways of Brooklyn.
The streets were cold in the early New York City morning. Taxis could be heard in the distance, of corporate suits getting ready to seize the day. The sun was raising its head between sky scrapers winking a hello at the forsaken.
Dumpster children scurried about to hide in the shadows like bloodsuckers that lurk in the night. They all hid from the watchful eye of lady sunshine, knowing if she caught them they might turn to dust. I was among them.
Drenched in sweat, lousy with hooch, I stumbled past sidewalk urchins digging through the trash for any morsel of breakfast. In my pocket was seven measly dollars, the leftovers of my weekly allowance.
I bought cigarettes and brandy from a trench coat clown on the street. With the dollar fifty left I bought a day old bagel at my favorite coffee shop. The owner was nice. On the coldest days of the year he would let me sit in here without buying anything. He’d let me sit and I would write songs in my head about the people I saw walk in.
There was this woman who would come in wearing gaudy costume jewelry. She sat at the bar and ordered a frappe mocha and would wait, sometimes hours, for the lost lover who never came. I always wanted to talk to her to find out her story. One day she stopped coming. I saw in the newspaper that she jumped in front of one of the trains at Union Station. What a terrible way to end it.
Death was common in NYC. I didn’t have any friends, everyone my age in the neighborhood was either a druggie or in juvenile detention. I often walked by doped up cherubs on the streets too out of it to know their own name. I felt sorry for them.
I shouldn’t. I was no better. I was just a kid wondering without a cause, getting shitfaced off gin and tonic, with no hope and no future. Just a kid no one cared about. That was me Michael Hatchers, age fifteen.
I wasn’t homeless. I had a bed in a house in Queens with a nice family. I was never there. They never cared. When I wasn’t in school I was wondering the streets looking for something better than this meaningless existence.
Story: Honey Birds
Title: That is love
Rating: PG
Challenge: Maple Walnut #4 off the record, Chokeberry #2 When I was younger I believed
Toppings/Extras:
Word count: 397
Summary: This is a writing sample I have been working on.
Note: