Post by Willow Short on Mar 31, 2008 19:00:35 GMT -5
Hope, My Little Miracle
By C. L. Simmons
Frost floated in the air as people walked to their destinations. It was winter in New York and snow covered the curbs, glittering silver as the top layer froze into ice. The walks were wet with melted and crushed snow, and shoe-prints mixed in with each other blinding into a complex pattern that kept getting redone, as if the artist couldn’t decide on what he wanted to do. Even the buildings themselves seemed cold; the brick, stone steel and concrete frozen to the touch. And the people of New York all sported rosy cheeks and reddish noses as the wind bit into their flesh. Cats and dogs shivered in the gutters, alleyways and shop stoops. Volunteer Santa’s stood at corners ringing their bells collecting for the children’s hospital in a red tin box suspended by a tripod below, a sign on the top of the tripod telling the cause and wishing people a happy Christmas and New Year. What little cars there were honked and beeped in the daily traffic, angry drivers cursing and shouting at each other as they grew later and later for work. This was Megan’s world. Well part of it.
Megan lived in a rundown part of the city. Trash littered the streets and sidewalks, burned out cars with doors missing were parked and ditched, left behind for what ever wanted to live in it. The walls of the shabby buildings were tagged with gang markings and off somewhere in an apartment building was a boom box blaring some rap music that wasn’t suited for the children playing in the empty streets to hear. In almost every doorway a bum slept underneath tattered blankets or news paper, half-dead and creepy looking. It was normal for this place called The Slums. The people who dwelled in such a place had no money. They dressed in old Salvation Army rejects, clothing that were too old or battered to sell. It was no surprise that Megan was also clothed in a dress that looked like it had seen better days.
Megan was only seventeen and was already expecting. She was but six months pregnant and showing. But she had a problem. All over her arms were the bruises that marked her as a drug addict. Her face was thin and haunted looking as she staggered down the sidewalk towards her home.
The building she lived in was as rundown and the others. The door was battered and missing its window pains. The wallpaper on its walls was a dirty brown and was peeling at the edges. Even the carpet was worn and had patches missing in the fibers. The stairs to the upper-level’s were well used and covered with dry grime. The steps creaked and groaned as she climbed up them one at a time.
Today’s fix wasn’t as good as it normally is, and she could feel something was wrong. But something was always wrong here. Regret swarmed in her mind as she stumbled down the second floor hall and fell not but six feet from her front door. Something was defiantly wrong with her. Dazed and in a drug induce euphoria she crawled towards her door, leaving a wet and bloody trail behind her. What was that funny clinching in her stomach?
A door opened behind here and there was a gasp. It seemed to be louder than normal. Wow was her hearing that heightened? Or was it because the halls were empty? None-the-less hand’s gently turned her onto her back and a face swam in front of her. It was kind and a soft brown color with big amber eyes and long eyelashes. The full lips were speaking to her but the sudden pain throbbing in her skull drowned the words out. She smiled in pain and her eyes rolled up into her head.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It was a couple months after the incident in the hall, and Megan could still remember everything so clearly. She wanted to forget it, but when the need for a quick fix hit her, she would gaze at her still tiny baby girl and the need would go away. She was born on Christmas day, a true miracle. She had a steady job to keep her in line, the money she earned used to buy things for Hope and food for her house, the rent being paid by her parents, who surprisingly started talking to her when they got wind of their new grandchild. It was going to be hard, being a single parent but she was up to it.
By C. L. Simmons
Frost floated in the air as people walked to their destinations. It was winter in New York and snow covered the curbs, glittering silver as the top layer froze into ice. The walks were wet with melted and crushed snow, and shoe-prints mixed in with each other blinding into a complex pattern that kept getting redone, as if the artist couldn’t decide on what he wanted to do. Even the buildings themselves seemed cold; the brick, stone steel and concrete frozen to the touch. And the people of New York all sported rosy cheeks and reddish noses as the wind bit into their flesh. Cats and dogs shivered in the gutters, alleyways and shop stoops. Volunteer Santa’s stood at corners ringing their bells collecting for the children’s hospital in a red tin box suspended by a tripod below, a sign on the top of the tripod telling the cause and wishing people a happy Christmas and New Year. What little cars there were honked and beeped in the daily traffic, angry drivers cursing and shouting at each other as they grew later and later for work. This was Megan’s world. Well part of it.
Megan lived in a rundown part of the city. Trash littered the streets and sidewalks, burned out cars with doors missing were parked and ditched, left behind for what ever wanted to live in it. The walls of the shabby buildings were tagged with gang markings and off somewhere in an apartment building was a boom box blaring some rap music that wasn’t suited for the children playing in the empty streets to hear. In almost every doorway a bum slept underneath tattered blankets or news paper, half-dead and creepy looking. It was normal for this place called The Slums. The people who dwelled in such a place had no money. They dressed in old Salvation Army rejects, clothing that were too old or battered to sell. It was no surprise that Megan was also clothed in a dress that looked like it had seen better days.
Megan was only seventeen and was already expecting. She was but six months pregnant and showing. But she had a problem. All over her arms were the bruises that marked her as a drug addict. Her face was thin and haunted looking as she staggered down the sidewalk towards her home.
The building she lived in was as rundown and the others. The door was battered and missing its window pains. The wallpaper on its walls was a dirty brown and was peeling at the edges. Even the carpet was worn and had patches missing in the fibers. The stairs to the upper-level’s were well used and covered with dry grime. The steps creaked and groaned as she climbed up them one at a time.
Today’s fix wasn’t as good as it normally is, and she could feel something was wrong. But something was always wrong here. Regret swarmed in her mind as she stumbled down the second floor hall and fell not but six feet from her front door. Something was defiantly wrong with her. Dazed and in a drug induce euphoria she crawled towards her door, leaving a wet and bloody trail behind her. What was that funny clinching in her stomach?
A door opened behind here and there was a gasp. It seemed to be louder than normal. Wow was her hearing that heightened? Or was it because the halls were empty? None-the-less hand’s gently turned her onto her back and a face swam in front of her. It was kind and a soft brown color with big amber eyes and long eyelashes. The full lips were speaking to her but the sudden pain throbbing in her skull drowned the words out. She smiled in pain and her eyes rolled up into her head.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It was a couple months after the incident in the hall, and Megan could still remember everything so clearly. She wanted to forget it, but when the need for a quick fix hit her, she would gaze at her still tiny baby girl and the need would go away. She was born on Christmas day, a true miracle. She had a steady job to keep her in line, the money she earned used to buy things for Hope and food for her house, the rent being paid by her parents, who surprisingly started talking to her when they got wind of their new grandchild. It was going to be hard, being a single parent but she was up to it.