Every fortnight the fantastic ermiliablog hosts a photograph suggested by contributors. People are urged to join in, comment with their paragraph of fiction to accompany the image. Poems, stories, even comments by readers are welcome.
I dunno who my folks were. Like everyone, I was told I wasn’t wanted… A stray cat that belonged to no one… A nameless slob with no home, no future, no nothin’… I ne’er told anyone this but… I do remember. I remember my momma’s voice… ‘twas soft, like ‘em fluffy white towels at one of those grand hotel rooms. I’d hold ‘em ‘gainst my face every time I wash myself up in the bathroom… I remember her singin’ me a lullaby… Now, if only I could understand ‘em words… ‘twas from another language… So I know I wasn’t from here. I doubt that anyone of us is from here.
I don’t talk much to others. I don’t have no friends. Can’t afford ‘em. Don’t wanna be missin’ nobody when I fin’lly get to leave this shithole. Now the other bigger kids they think, this is it. There ain’t nuthin’ more to it. They’ll prolly end up b’comin’ like Mona here, in charge of the pimpin’ and groomin’, pickin’ out these dresses so that we’ll look good for ‘em rich old geezers. But not me… I’m getting’ outa here. I got a plan, you see. Every time one of those rich old bastards hand me a tip, I keep it. When I was younger, they trained me to pick pockets; at least that turned out to be useful. I stash the money away in a can, keep it in a hole I built in the ground. ‘tis the last place Mona and the other mean kids will look for I s’ppose. I dunno how to go ’bout it ‘xactly, but it’s a start. If there’s somthin’ I learnt from those wrinkly old bastards, it’s that money can get you everythin’. A dress. A decent meal. A cigarette. Hopefully, it can get me my freedom. Mona’s here now, she takin’ us to the city. Life stinks but watcha gonna do?
© 2013 K.Z. Morano
*the story’s too sad for me and a painful reality for some.. i dunno, i might change it/ make another one. it just made me feel sad after writing it. 😦