A story I wrote about a homeless person.


1. Homeless

Down the dark alley, a presence loomed. It seemed to beckon, stretching an invisible, ghostly hand to me. I want to come to it. Anyone would want to explore anything mysterious. Wouldn't they?

Down the dark alleyway, there sat a man. His clothes had gone months without washing, a beard rented his chin. His hair; a mass of curls, flattened by a tight cap. His hands went up to his mouth, never still. Twitching, shaking bones brushed against his mouth. A rat fed on crumbs of bread,  which was his breakfast, lunch and supper. The man and rat. Of rats and men. I couldn't tell the two of the men I saw apart. They were the same. Equal. Indistinguishable. 

This man wasn't homeless. 
He was a great man. 
He came up with the idea of the phone.
He invented the space shuttle. 
He invented computers. 
He's a terrorist.
He's a murderer.
He's a musician.
He's a scriptwriter. 
He could be a world famous actor. 

He's a homeless man. 

He is none of these things, yet he can be all of them. You can imagine him to be all these things. Your choice.  

We may never know. 

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