The Streets of New York - Prologue By Mark Wright It’s another cold night in New York City. The moon is full, and ice is hanging from the street signs. As I lie in the alley hoping to feel the heat from the warm building bricks, I watch what little trash the street cleansers failed to vacuum float past my head. Being homeless can make a person understand what survival actual means.
I blink for a second, which turned into an hour, and am waken by an expensive pointed Europen shoe barreling its way into my muscle–the vastus intermedius between my flesh and femur (I watch reruns of House at Wally’s bar while drinking coffee).
“Wake up street trash.”
“What the…,” I bellowed, gritting my teeth as I grab my leg.
"Get out of here, This ain’t the mission, you freeloader.”
This guy is dressed way to well, to be working in a kitchen of some almost fancy restaurant. He had about as much class as the pimps down on 42nd St.
“Sorry Sir, I was just trying to stay warm.”
He opens his jacket and shows me his gun clenched in his shoulder holster. I did my best not to feel the pain and most passively stood up.
“I am leaving Sir, no arguments here.”
I turn around and start walking, he aims the little stray pebbles, settled on the alley pavement, with one swift kick in my direction. I feel the pebbles as small pieces of shrapnel bounce off my pant legs.
It amazes me how ignorance is so prevalent when a person fails to access a situation or person observantly. The two inch, in circumference, orb in my pocket starts glowing green, (the orb, set to a default, when reading my physical shell as a matter of self-security).
I turn around. Looking at the overdressed God Father wannabe character. The orb starts to glow through the flesh in my hand, turning it as green as the orb, and in one small instance...
He no longer exists.
My earth name is Adam. I came from a plant three light years away from earth. Exiled for a few reasons, none justifiable through my own eyes. I am here… One day hopefully I can find my way home.
Hi, my name is Mark, I am a writer, not a novelist, but I do love to write short stories and flash fiction. I come from a film and TV background and have written a wide range of film and TV scripts. I also directed, produced, and edited. I finally decided to give up Film and TV, after doing it for a number of years, and could not kill the idea of how much I like to tell stories. Since it's me, my computer, and Smokey my cat that's at home most of the time, I decided to start writing stories in literary format and love it. I hope to meet many people in the process and have fun writing my own stories. I decided to offer one of my flash fiction stories to give an idea of the type of writing I like to do. Enjoy! 👀
"Healed To Kill" (Flash Fiction)
The blood was dripping from his fingertips, hitting the ground like large drops of rain making contact to a thick puddle. He thought it would never happen. His dream had finally come true.
“Why…” quietly asked the mugger as he was gasping for air.
“Justice, the way it was meant to be,” he said with a grovel in his voice.
He twisted the knife deep into the mugger’s organs. The small flow of blood turned into a spray. The blood looked like a sprinkler taking life instead of offering it.
The mugger dropped to the ground, hitting the puddle even harder than the large drops of blood. Breathing his last breath never closing his eyes.
He stared down, looking at the mugger’s open dead eyes, and feeling like his new life had just started. His new mission finally had a heartbeat.
Looking into the dead man’s eyes, he saw a reflection. The reflection of his wife and child brutally murdered in the dark streets of New York City. Feeling the new heartbeat, he could feel the old heart, hurting. His broken heart can only be healed to kill.