This was a story I was just kind of playing around with:)
The sky was an overcast gray. Street lamps had been lit earlier than they usually were in the evening. Men in black trench coats had pulled their collars up in hopes of keeping out the cold. Women rushed along the streets holding tightly to their coats as if warding off the cold by sheer will power. Only one seemed to not be aggravated by the bite of the wind. A small boy, about 12 or 13, sat staring almost uncomprehending to the cold. His brown wool jacket was worn from use. The wooden buttons had been worn smooth from being pulled through the course button holes so many times. The ends of his trousers were frayed from the element of time. The knees of these forlorn looking trousers were worn straight to his scraped and bony knees. The slabs of leather on his feet were hardly worth calling shoes, though at one time, they had seen a better day. To top off his attire, the boy wore a worn cap atop his shaggy blond hair. His gaunt and wind burned face bore no trace of expression. But if anyone of the arrogant passersby would have stopped and really looked at the kid, his eyes would have screamed his pain and humiliation. They wove a story of great sorrow, betrayal, and hurt. Those eyes would have haunted their memories for the rest of their days. But no one stopped and boy continued to sit and stare impassively across the street.
Across the street stood an old apartment building. It was still lived in, but the red brick structure looked neglected. A large oak door barricaded unwanted visitors from witnessing what was inside. It looked just as haggard as the boy sitting across the street. But unlike the boy, the door showed every badge of hurt to an uncaring audience. It proclaimed with resolute anger all of its abuses. The boy was withdrawn and contained, not like the sails of a ship before they were flung wildly about in a horrific tempest, but like an abandoned stray dog, broken and resigned to his status of starving for attention that he would never get.
Down the street, walking at a leisurely pace walked a man. . . The first thing that anyone noticed about the man was that he wore a large black patch over his right eye. His brown hair was cropped short and tinted with gray and silver streaks. He wore a long brown trench coat. It looked as though the sun had shined on it in a better day. The man's shoulders were slightly hunched forward. But even for all his badges of poverty, he walked with an odd step of humbled pride. he held his straight forward looking into the icy jaws of the north wind. His walk bore a hazy reminder to a life once lead, but forgotten to a cruel and heartless world.
The man was staring intently at the boy sitting on the crates. . . The boy could hear the man advancing but ignored him as he had the others that had passed him by. The man stopped directly in front of the boy, as if commanding the boy's attention to him. The boy continued to stare, as though staring right through the stranger. . . Finally the man spoke. His voice was deep and sounded somewhat tired.
"You look like you ain't got no hope left boy." When the boy answered his voice was guarded and held little emotion.
"Ain't no such thing as hope." the boy continued to stare down the street. . . If the boy would have looked at the stranger then, he would have seen a small smile flicker across his tired face.
"We are all born with hope in our hearts boy. Otherwise we wouldn't have the power to live."
The boy turned his head and raised it so he could see the stranger. He studied the eyes of the man, searching for sarcasm.
"Hope's only for the rich folks. Some of us don't have a choice if'n we wanna live. We just have to cuz someones gotta do all the work for the rich folks." the boy maintained a steady stare into the stranger's eyes. It was almost as if he was daring the man to contradict him. The man simply stared back. Finally, unnerved by the penetrating stare of the young boy, the stranger sat down beside him on the crate.
"You're wrong. Rich men only have an easier time to hope for things. But they are shallow and of little worth most a the time. They should be hopin that they can be as smart as you." the boy gave out a short burst of breath. It was the closest thing to a laugh for him in a long time.
"I ain't smart mister. My Pa made sure I knew that." the boy became silent as though he had said too much. The stranger respected the silence for only a short amount of time. He glanced over at the boy and noted that he was slumped up against the wall and staring into his dirty palms.
"Where is your Pa, boy?" he was answered with silence. The stranger quickly concluded that the boy's father was gone. He gave a small knowing smile. He had heard this story before.
"You look starved. Come along an' I'll fetch ya some grub." the man could see the boys hands clench tightly together. He was starving, but he wasn't going to let that man know.
"Come on boy. Yer goin' to get pneumonia out here sittin'." the stranger was silent as he waited, hoping he had convinced the boy. Suddenly an idea occurred. It was far fetched, but he was hoping the boy would fall for it. "Your Pa wants ya to come with me." the boy turned with wide eyes to look.
"You've seen Pa?" the moved as though to stand, but then leaned back as if on second thought.
"You sure you know my Pa? I ain't never seen you 'afore." the stranger nodded.
"Does your Pa introduce you to all his drinkin' buddies?" the boy continued to look at him disbelievingly. Slowly the logic of what the stranger said kicked in.
"Will you take me to my Pa and he can come eat with us too?" the stranger nodded. The boy held out a quivering hand. He held it there, waiting and then the stranger grasped it and shook.
"Now follow me lad." the boy rose weakly from his seat and followed after the man.