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.
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.
Copyright © 2018 Mark Wright
The Streets of New York - Prologue
The Streets of New York - Prologue
(Audio Version)
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