Archive for the ‘My Writing’ Category

Beer Feet

July 23, 2018

Beer Feet

He stumbled; he fell on the floor. I am alright, he told her. Everything’s fine. She looked at him and shook her head. She helped him sit on the cushion. Her bare feet felt something. She bent over with a paper towel and wiped the floor. Beer! It’s beer! The floor is all full of beer. The cans were empty. I fell because of the water, he said. No, it’s the beer; I can smell it a mile away, she answered. He put his head on the cushion by the wall. He grabbed the blanket and covered his face.






July 12, 2018


People walked by with lunch food—paper bags and plastic bags full of food. Some looked down at the two people sitting on the sidewalk by the curb and walked on. Some gave them looks as if to ask: Why don’t you just work already? The man was not too thin, but his companion was an elderly woman. Her arms were skinny and her eyes had no light in them. Someone stopped by the woman. Would you like this? The woman grabbed the bag and thanked the person. It’s a burger and fries. The man shrugged. Take it. She opened the container and chewed hard, as fast as she could. I am hungry. I am really hungry, leftovers or no. This is food.









Afternoon of Nothing

July 2, 2018

Afternoon of Nothing

She waited. She waited all afternoon. It was hot, with water going down her face. It was no use wiping it off. What would have been the point? Her red cup was next to her. She crossed her legs and looked at the people walking by: mothers with their kids, men and women wearing suits and carrying portfolios, young women with short summer dresses—all of them passed her, not seeing her. She looked down at the cup. Empty—it was completely empty. For this, she thought, I might as well have gone elsewhere, done something else. She had no idea what that something else was, but the idea appealed to her. I am tired, she said to herself. Forget about it this afternoon. I am leaving. She got up, took her bags and walked away.


To Unravel

June 24, 2018

Unravel–the life is completely unravelled. It’s nothing good. It is all twisted up, broken with no joy to it. The life has gone missing. The best parts are gone, way off in the not so distant past. The life is the one that someone wants to put back together; it is the life that could use being labeled “normal” again. After so much pain there is no normal. Normal is a fantasy, a fairy tale.


June 22, 2018

He killed me. I am dead. We were arguing ins the kitchen. He accused me of being unfaithful, he said I had lied to him. He called me a dumb ass and other nice names. I was tired and turned to walk away. I wanted my bedroom. There I could find solace. He opened the drawer in the kitchen. I didn’t see the knife; I just felt it. I turned to look at him. Why? Why was he doing this? My eyes were big. I didn’t understand. My hands grabbed his jeans. He turned his face to the wall. I was gone.


June 7, 2018


Long ago—it was long ago. All those days of rushing from plane to plane, from city to city happened years and years ago. There was the need to do something, to be somewhere. There was the need to be somebody, somebody important, a person who got things done. Fatigue did not exist then. The word was nowhere near the vocabulary. The eagerness to be with the ones I loved, the ones I truly loved—all that is gone now. It is done.






June 4, 2018

She sat on the white crates–one on top of another, then another and a third crate. She closed her eyes. The wind bothered her, but at least the rain had stopped. She hated getting wet. Life on the sidewalk was more real than anything she had ever experienced. It was hard concrete all the way through. For 10 minutes her mid took her somewhere safe and warm, to a place without pain and unkindness. Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She shook herself and looked to see a hand holding a dollar bill. ” Here. Could you use this?” She half smiled. “Yes. Thank you very much. I need a cup of coffee.”


May 31, 2018


2 cents—is that your generous offer to my empty cup? Are the 2 pennies going to help me out here on the street? I am not ungrateful—not at all. Beggars can’t be choosers—I know that too well. Just think about it. If someone offered you 2 cents, would you like it? No, you’d feel insulted, maybe even humiliated. Being in the raw, as on the sidewalk is hard enough.



Zero in the Sun

May 29, 2018

Zero In the Sun

She didn’t arrive early at her site—Tuesday after the long holiday weekend might not be as good as she hoped. She sat on her crate just when the lunch crowd was walking by. It was 89 degrees and the sun was beating furiously. She thought she would faint. Her faithful cup and her sign were next to her. The sign was a little the worse for wear but she hadn’t had time to write a new one. Her thin arms were uncovered; she didn’t want the people to see that in places the skin sagged but she had nothing to cover them up with. She shrugged her shoulders and stretched them. It didn’t matter; unfortunately there was no way to turn back the clock. Her head needed protection. She bent down to get a newspaper from her bag. Hours went by. The cup remained empty. There was no food, either. How would it end—her little story? She shrugged her shoulders again. One more hour—if nothing happened by then, she’d leave.








Wait Game

May 22, 2018


She sat there, under something or other. Water kept coming down. The protection offered by the thing wasn’t enough. She was getting wet. The street was busy. People walked down, they walked up the street. No one saw her. If only someone! If only someone could. I can’t. I don’t know how anymore. Where is it—the food, the whatever that is needed? It is cold here. It is not comfortable.