Since NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) is here once again, I finally got up the courage to join and participate. Figured since people have asked, I'll tell Hoboken's story. Will try to update this as I write and hopefully it's entertaining for whoever reads it.
Oh, I edited some and added in places.
**************************************
"Getting cold bottle-bottle, me wish dare wuz sumting tasties and warms to eats." Light flares from nothing to illuminate an odd staggering figure stumble prone into one of the few vacant alcoves along the alley. "Ah, dat hitsa spot. Youse always takes cares of me's bottle-bottle." The wobbling course draws the gaze of others not blinded by the flash of light against the evening darkness in the small gathering drawn to the shelter of the alley. Dirty and patched clothing cover every peering body. Emaciated women pulling the smudged faces of their children protectively close. Men watch the unusual soul warily, each one edging to the borders of their little piece of the alley, prepared to defend it. This was their claimed territory, no room for charity at the bottom of the well. Just rocks to break upon and shallow prayers for deaf ears. Potential hostiles ignored as the figure rights itself, low groans rumble over the louder cry of an empty stomach. Bleary bloodshot eyes lift from something held in gloved hands, dilated pupils retaining the unexplained light for just a matter of breaths. Grubby hands dig around gathering together odds and ends found within the recess. A stained news printing smelling of dried ammonia gets spread flat at his feet. Fingers" curl against something rough and moving; closer inspection discovers a loaf end more maggots than bread. With a heavy sigh the stranger bites into the unsavory morsel, ignoring the way flies-that-never-will-be dance and squirm across his tongue for their lives. Meal set aside, he twists to explore the space behind him realizing an unexplained draft. Feeling against the back wall unearths the hidden secrets of a boarded up door. Finding the knob, he jiggles it only to feel the unyielding response of locked iron. "Me not dat luckies, figurines. But it all burns bottle-bottle" Hands close around crotchety boards heavy heaving a trio free. Rusty nails carefully worked free by touch and stuffed into an as of yet unused pocket. Price per pound a distant thought behind durable toothpicks. Thickest of the three placed length ways between his spaced feet, the odd object brought with him into the alley upended against the grain. "Now for da kindles?" Fingers reclaim the discarded loaf and shake maggots off onto the braced board before ripping a page off the newsprint and crumpling it over them. Keeping everything balanced precariously, he fishes free one of the removed nails, bracing it along his thumb tightly. With a slow inhale of breath, he strikes the nail across the odd object, blue sparks dance to life in a vibrant shower where they catch on the news print setting it smoking. Spread hands cup about the flaring embers, softly breathing them to heat and rise moving from paper to maggots beneath. The thumb of his right hand covers an odd roundness on the object he strikes against the nail. Shaking it with soft mumblings, he slowly removes his thumb, a clear substance pouring forth making the olive sized flickering burn bright. Hasty movements bring the ignited board deeper into the recess.
Huddling around a fire, with the fetid stink of months without bathing sat a middle-aged man in a rumpled and dirty suit. On one sleeve the words "Gift from Jadey Lady?, scrawled in ink of questionable origin. Clutched to his chest seemed to be his only possession of value; a silver bottle covered stopper to base in strange rolling calligraphy. Rocking back and forth, ignoring the other dirty faces slowly gathering around the meager fire, he mumbles softly to this clearly precious object.
Oh, I edited some and added in places.
**************************************
"Getting cold bottle-bottle, me wish dare wuz sumting tasties and warms to eats." Light flares from nothing to illuminate an odd staggering figure stumble prone into one of the few vacant alcoves along the alley. "Ah, dat hitsa spot. Youse always takes cares of me's bottle-bottle." The wobbling course draws the gaze of others not blinded by the flash of light against the evening darkness in the small gathering drawn to the shelter of the alley. Dirty and patched clothing cover every peering body. Emaciated women pulling the smudged faces of their children protectively close. Men watch the unusual soul warily, each one edging to the borders of their little piece of the alley, prepared to defend it. This was their claimed territory, no room for charity at the bottom of the well. Just rocks to break upon and shallow prayers for deaf ears. Potential hostiles ignored as the figure rights itself, low groans rumble over the louder cry of an empty stomach. Bleary bloodshot eyes lift from something held in gloved hands, dilated pupils retaining the unexplained light for just a matter of breaths. Grubby hands dig around gathering together odds and ends found within the recess. A stained news printing smelling of dried ammonia gets spread flat at his feet. Fingers" curl against something rough and moving; closer inspection discovers a loaf end more maggots than bread. With a heavy sigh the stranger bites into the unsavory morsel, ignoring the way flies-that-never-will-be dance and squirm across his tongue for their lives. Meal set aside, he twists to explore the space behind him realizing an unexplained draft. Feeling against the back wall unearths the hidden secrets of a boarded up door. Finding the knob, he jiggles it only to feel the unyielding response of locked iron. "Me not dat luckies, figurines. But it all burns bottle-bottle" Hands close around crotchety boards heavy heaving a trio free. Rusty nails carefully worked free by touch and stuffed into an as of yet unused pocket. Price per pound a distant thought behind durable toothpicks. Thickest of the three placed length ways between his spaced feet, the odd object brought with him into the alley upended against the grain. "Now for da kindles?" Fingers reclaim the discarded loaf and shake maggots off onto the braced board before ripping a page off the newsprint and crumpling it over them. Keeping everything balanced precariously, he fishes free one of the removed nails, bracing it along his thumb tightly. With a slow inhale of breath, he strikes the nail across the odd object, blue sparks dance to life in a vibrant shower where they catch on the news print setting it smoking. Spread hands cup about the flaring embers, softly breathing them to heat and rise moving from paper to maggots beneath. The thumb of his right hand covers an odd roundness on the object he strikes against the nail. Shaking it with soft mumblings, he slowly removes his thumb, a clear substance pouring forth making the olive sized flickering burn bright. Hasty movements bring the ignited board deeper into the recess.
Huddling around a fire, with the fetid stink of months without bathing sat a middle-aged man in a rumpled and dirty suit. On one sleeve the words "Gift from Jadey Lady?, scrawled in ink of questionable origin. Clutched to his chest seemed to be his only possession of value; a silver bottle covered stopper to base in strange rolling calligraphy. Rocking back and forth, ignoring the other dirty faces slowly gathering around the meager fire, he mumbles softly to this clearly precious object.