The Old Man Walking

The night air was heavy with silence. Clouds drifted across a calm sky, and a full moon shone in the distance. In a small hut on the outskirts of the valley, an old man lay in bed, awake in the peaceful slumber of the village. His breaths came in rattling gasps, his forehead burned, and his joints felt stiff with pain. He shifted on the blankets, his withered hands clenched in fists as he tried to suppress the wave of bitter memories coming to him. His life had been nothing more than work, loss, tragedy. He remembered all of his hope, his ambition, in his youth, and he smiled bitterly. No one would remember him as the man that he had once hoped he would become. Now, as his breathing became heavier and he felt himself fading on the brink of

As I went downstairs the tone of the room felt hot, humid, and empty. Hot, because of the burning Atlanta temperatures of ninety-eight degrees or higher. Humid, caused by the broken air conditioning and affecting the density of the atmosphere. Finally empty. The furniture was missing and minimal sounds can bounce off to make echoes. I was departing from a place that I called home. I lived at the address 353 Leisure Court for almost a year; the identity of the street brings back smiles to my face because of its pleasantry. Living here has made me feel secure like a dog to his owner. Moving away from this security brought feelings of uncertainty. My lack of confidence was about the new beginnings my family would experience after the move. But

On a warm, sunny Texas afternoon I walked through the Southlake strip mall. In the air a pungent odor danced around me. My hand went immediately to my nose, to block out the smell. The sun’s heat came glaring down at me as I shielded my hands in front of my face to keep the ray of light from hurting my sensitive eyes. The clouds seemed to dance across the vibrant blue sky. The pounding of my feet echoed across the

My shoelaces whipped at the backs of my ankles, urging me forward. Rain-drenched, I ran. I had felt the venom of desperation before, but never of this caliber -this was its purest form. It tasted of whiskey. I 'd never been fond of whiskey. The branches of the fir trees scraped against my cheeks and I forced myself to feel each individual needle. I deserved as much. His voice laughed “Come find me” amongst the trees, echoing throughout the forest. It was a wet winter, as wet as one would think a winter could be with Washington 's climate. I slipped on the moss coated roots and sliced my right cheek on a jagged rock. By midnight, it would all be over.

The stone streets were a veil at this time of night, with who knows how many menacing horrors hiding behind the curtain. The lingering gas hovering over the ground was timid, dispersing at the sight of anyone who strayed near. The moon tried to pry into the city’s shadows, but it was too thick to cut. The buildings were nothing but faded memories: gray, eroded structures that once boasted splendor and beauty. Street rats, both rodent and human, scuttled about in the alleyways, knocking assortments over and fleeing if anyone walked past, just like the gas. A dog barked in the distance. Car horns blared on 5th Avenue nearby. Tank sighed. No place like home.

The evening was ominous and gray. The cold wind blew softly, and carried a heavy scent of blood through the streets. A loud intense screech pierced the ears of its listener, leaving the body trembling in fear.

A morbid melancholy stole over me. Anxiety gnawed at my heart. I was a living corpse. There was a feeling of chill in the air every day as I felt. I faked illness so as not to go to school. Despair hangs heavy in the stifling air. It was a dreary day for me , cold and without sunshine. I dread people and always avoid people. The door was locked from the inside. A cold grey light crept under the curtains. The windows were secured with locks and bars. The room felt cold and sterile.The flowers faded for want of water. A single lamp was suspended from the ceiling. The clock ticked louder and louder in a quiet room. I regarded the room as a refuge from the outside

Milky watery eyes glared at me with a sorrow I could not forget. The sparks of hope faded from his orbs as I past his shivering small figure. My heart ached at the sight of the twist and turns of the dark alleyways he called home. Although years have passed since then, I can still recall my first glimpse of homelessness.

Crumpled newspapers scattered the table like the bones of dead bodies after war. Windows wiped down of memories huddled between oak frames, facing a street with cosy cottages. Single embroidered carpets hugged the floor, covering the marble tiles in delicate silk. A whisper of wind floated in through cracks of the panes of glass, whispering it's songs of misery throughout the house. I breathed in gulps of air, allowing the icy coolness to fill my lungs, and the morning frost creep out. My glistening blue eyes presented purple bags, and my sleek hair was a tangled cobweb. My feet dragged along the stone floor like the walking of the undead. I’d been up all night, searching and seeking for answers.

I was so preoccupied with looking around the room I didn’t notice a short, elderly man creep out from the shadows. “What are you doing here?!” he shouted, “This here is private property!”. I turned around and took a good look at the man. He wore bleached, old fashioned clothes that resembled a style from the 1960s, with thick spectacles. He looked familiar. “A corpse was found in this area this morning, I’m questioning the residents surrounding the crime scene.” I replied, “Have you ever seen this man?” I inquired, pulling out the victim’s wallet showing him the photograph of the victim. An expression flickered across the man’s face almost too quickly to catch it, but he quickly regained his composure, “I ain’t never seen ‘im.” the man said indifferently.

The cool winter air stung my face as I exited through the ski lodge door. Board in hand, I stepped onto the powdery snow. After each step I took all I heard was crunches and crackles from the snow compacting underneath my weight. I nervously made my way over to the top of the bunny hill where a tall, beat up looking man named Dave stood. He looked as if the cold weather had made him age quicker than the rest. The earnest look on his face caused me to shudder in fear. His eyes pierced through my soul as if warning me not to go through with this. I took a deep breath as I realized how

Gray, nimbostratus clouds blanketed the L.A. skyline, the promise of rain becoming more of a threat with each passing hour. However, the bleak, November day suited Tom’s pensive mood, the impending storm mirroring the tumultuous thoughts brewing within his mind. After countless cups of coffee and only three hours’ sleep, he was on edge, caught in a web of his own making. He wandered in aimless circles around the living room floor, his pinched face showing clear signs of agitation, his heart thumping rapidly in his chest. For the tenth time in less than five minutes, he glanced at the clock, unsure if he wanted his visitor to arrive or not. But despite his apprehension, he knew he needed to face his demons, and a gloomy

A sickly breeze slithers around the corner of a long brick building and pulls bits of paper and trash into its wickedly spiraling game. Grey fog, twisting and warping into grotesque patterns, oozes up from the dank stream of sewage that floats lazily down the gutters of the stone-made road. A hunchbacked old man trundles through the mist, the collar of his tattered jacket clenched tightly around his face to ward off the slight autumn chill of the brisk morning air. He hardly slows at the sound of another being moving towards him through the smog. A small, dirty child, adorned in a ragged yellow dress waddles by, on her way to the factory where she will spend her day exposed to many hazardous conditions. Thus was the life of the people in

He had been walking somewhere on a road, in between buildings, he doesn’t know how long it’s been how long he has been walking. Night hauntingly shrouds his surroundings with darkness; the artificial lights seem so damn weak. They seem to only produce enough light to brighten a large moving box. The darkness stares him down, the cold presses against the bare skin of his arms. A hand squeezes his right shoulder he can feel the warmth through his shirt.

The street was eerily quiet as I crossed. So was Mike. Staring at me unwaveringly, he said nothing as I approached. The crow's feet framing his eyes, the ridges in his forehead, and the crinkles in his cheeks still stand out in my mind. How many nights had he lain on that bench, covering his face as the wind whipped against it? Now he hugged his body tightly. He was wearing an old pair of tan khakis, a shirt that I couldn't see clearly, and a light multi-colored jacket, its sleeves ending above his pale wrists, that was just slightly too small and clung to his body. As I gave him the money in my wallet, he took it--slowly--and stared at it for a second in disbelief. Although the street in front of the library is usually an amalgam of car horns, headlights, whining engines throughout the night, nothing--not