Friday, February 19, 2016

53rd and C

Wisps of acrid smoke floated flagellantly about the unusual man. However, no ashen stink nor cinder burnt holes could have marred his decrepit motely. Broadcloth and brocade laden, the out of place man did not sweat beneath the white sun.

Merely lounging, perhaps from accidental practice, he seemed to bring his own shadow. With each subtle shift the fool backlit his broken face. A vague desperation shone within his darkening eyes.
From the final salute of May until the blush of flushing September, he hovered about the abandoned corner storefront.

Drunk students threw change at his feet afterwords he was performing. The neighborhood breathed easier when his purpose was provided. A mound of money grew slowly about his idle feet.

Local homeless grew increasingly wary with his presence. The fool never bothered to notice them making off with his cash. He dismissed the, more thoroughly than anyone in pressed slacks ever had.
He responded to less and less as August wetly fell away.

On September 23rd he began to pace in frantic turmoil. His mouth would suddenly distend in quiet screaming. At first the singles shifted to fivers but soon enough the fool grew no new money. Soon enough, the corner emptied of all except busy people, passing quickly with hands pockets.

When Wanda Ricard worked up the courage to try and harvest the fool’s money, on the 26th, she found him long gone. She found instead a puddle of piss, a peculiar tangle of aluminum wire, and enough scratch to get a room and a bottle of decent gin.

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