Bums: A Short Story

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Bums I see them whenever I walk down the street. Tucked into nooks and crannies, they house themselves everywhere on Mango St. Their eyes study my every movement, and their ragged breaths fill the air. Broken shards of glass lay strewn across the single cot that they call home. They own nothing but the clothes on their back, clothes that have not been washed in years. Their faces are hidden under a thick coat of wrinkles and grime. Every night, they scavenge through the bins for food. Whenever a passerby passes by, they silently taunt them with their empty eyes. When they speak, the words are slurred, and their mouths reek of alcohol. They say: Little girl, come here. Why, little girl what beautiful eyes you have. Come here, won’t you little
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