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The Squirrel And The Farmer by Matt Kornatz - [1 words]
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Dirty City
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TITLE (EDIT)
Dirty City
DESCRIPTION
Abbie Angel is running, hiding in a concrete and glass jungle.
[696 words]
AUTHOR
Abbie Angel
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
-
[August 2004]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (16)
A Message From God (Short Stories) From a runaway girl, inspiration from God? Possibly. [599 words]
Cycle Of Street Life (Poetry) Life on the streets if you are not careful. [111 words]
Dying For A Memory (Short Stories) When there is nothing left, what can you do? [228 words]
Eastbound Wanderer (Short Stories) A runaway's Journey. [543 words]
Forever Lost (Poetry) Poetry of the street people. [67 words]
He And You (Poetry) Yin and Yang--we all have the good and the evil in life; sometimes it is evil that wins. [103 words]
Hell's Gate (Short Stories) A sad story about a fire burning underground since 1962. [681 words]
Hunger Moon (Poetry) Poem about what it is like to me hungry. [168 words]
Lost Christmas (Short Stories) - [379 words]
Lost Girl (Short Stories) A true story about a girl who ran away from home when she was 15 years old. It's about me. [1,526 words]
Lost Girl 2 (Short Stories) More of my story being lost in a mean world. [619 words]
Lost Girl 3 (Short Stories) Abbie Angel, 15, is still running. This might be my last entry for a while. [884 words]
Magic Man (Short Stories) - [1,008 words]
Night Zombies (Poetry) About the street people. [166 words]
Pale Moon Of Christmas (Poetry) Abbie Angel, Runaway, is back again. [159 words]
The Antichrist Of The Blue Moon (Short Stories) My name is Abbie and I am a runaway. I think I met the Antichrist and that is my story. [1,409 words]
Dirty City
Abbie Angel

Sputtering neons. Cracked sidewalks. Shadowed, dark-mouthed alleys. A drumbeat of rain laying a wet shine on the streets. Street bums in old hats clutching paper-sacked wine bottles. Tall buildings, like brick-and-glass grave stones, block out the sun and laugh at the moon. A checkered cab cruising for fares. The heavy rumble of a truck, barking car horns, the mournful night cry of a cop car siren. These are the streets of New York. But it could be your town. Any town.

I was so lonely on Thanksgiving Day, so alone. I ended up in a church to keep warm and to get some sleep, away from the mean streets. I must have been tired because an older lady woke me up. I told her I just came in to pray. Well, she looked at me, looked at my clothes, and asked how long it has been since I had a bite to eat. I couldn't remember. She told me that she would get me something to eat from the soup kitchen and to follow her to the minister's office. He was a middle-ag guy who was hunched over some books. He told the cleaning lady that the kitchen was closed and everything was locked up. So she asked him for a dollar to give to me and he said that he didn't have any money with him. I didn't like the minister; I could see right through him. The lady didn't see him the way he really was: a well-fed, potbellied guy who only cared about himself. The woman asked that if he didn't have it with him, could he get it while we waited for him? The minister went into another office. He came back and handed me a dollar. Compared to nothing, that was a lot of money. On the streets, there are a few ways to make money stretch a long way. Later, in a store, I had the dollar changed to nickels and dimes. With a nickel in hand I entered the first restaurant I saw. "This is all the money I have left in the world," I lied to the woman behind the counter. "Could you give me something to eat for it?" This works maybe 4 out of 5 times. It makes it hard for anyone to turn you down. You won't eat steak, but if worse comes to worse, you can get a bowl of chili and some crackers. She didn't take my nickel as payment; few people do because who wants to take someone's last penny?

After that, I just walked and walked, and ended up at Broadway & Wall, Trinity church and cemetary. Lots of people I read about in school are buried there. Alexander Hamilton, Robt Fulton and more. My real dad (not that no-good Steve) like to shoot pool and we played alot because dad bought a pool table and had it in the garage. After he died mom sold it to pay some bills.

God, it's getting cold to sleep at night. I have to find places to hide here so guys won't bother me. I don't stay in one place to long because they know you're a homeless and they try to get you to work the streets. If anybody my age is thinking about running away from home, DON'T. There is no life here in the streets; only misery, hurt and in the end a lonely death and nobody cares about you. You have to beg to eat, or look through dumpsters, or find freebies in supermarkets--you know, those samples they give away. I am probably going to live underground like I wrote about before, to get out of the cold. I don't know. I met a girl my age up in Queens and her name is Becky. She works as a hooker for money but blows it all on cigarettes Blue dolls and Barbies. She's really pretty but skinny, like me, and has a bad cough. Becky found me in an alley going through a dumpster. Becky told me to get off the streets before I do something like she got stuck with. I have to do something and fast.

Well, I better go.

 

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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2004 Abbie Angel
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
December 2004
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2426
 

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