This is just a reminder so that you don't miss out on your chance to win one of THREE FREE autographed copies, of the book written by fantasy/fiction author "Aylerion", entitled "Daughter of New York".
Through a doorless entranceway, on a damp
floor, a dark figure leans against a cold wall. The
rumbling and screeching echoes of trains in the
vicinity surround a silhouette barely noticeable, while
a weak overhead bulb illuminates it.
In between the momentary sounds, a sweet, yet
sullen voice is heard as it speaks to something
unknown beside it. Upon closer inspection in the
minimal light, a girl, perhaps seventeen years old, can
be made out.
Filth and grime clothe her. Her wavy, greasy
hair droops down and a few strands curtain her dirty
face. As the busy morning trains lessen and fade, more
of what she is saying becomes audible and
comprehendible.
“This should teach you not to pick fights with
big, mean alley cats,” she says softly to a rescued bird
in a homemade nest. “If I hadn’t arrived when I did,
you would be seeing the inner workings of a cat right
now. As ungrateful as they are, those felines.”
She is dressing the bird’s wing with a makeshift
splint of broken pencils when the sound of classical
music emerges. Upon reaching her ears, she pauses to
listen.
“Wait, listen.” Staying still as the music
reverberates around her she continues, “Do you hear
it? Sure you do.” She smiles. “Birds have great hearing.
That one is my favorite. I will have to learn what it’s
called.”
Finishing up, she leans in closer to the bird. “I
hope this has made you a much wiser bird. Next time
you run into that big ol’ cat, you will be able to soar
right over him. I know birds like to eat early, so don’t
worry about food while you’re here, I will bring plenty.”
She leans her head against the wall and ponders
for a moment. “Actually, I’m getting hungry myself.”
Then, when all is quiet, a light gust of wind
gently moves her hair. She leans protectively over the
bird as a clamorous train rolls right past the doorway
only a few feet away.
A grate rises from the sidewalk off to the side of
traffic and out she climbs with ease. Closing the grate
behind her, she puts her messengertype
bag
crossways on her shoulder and looks up to the sky.
As it is an overcast day, she is now in full view,
but her eyes are difficult to make out under her
dangling hair, and the harsh elements, to which she
has long since become accustomed.
Her secondhand clothes are past worn, and yet,
as disheveled as she is, one could not help but discern
something attractive about her, if one could see her.
She walks down the street slowly, examining her
surroundings quite circumspectly. Her mannerisms
show her uniqueness and youth, as she observes
people and things around her to the point of
inspection.
As she passes a child arguing with his mother
about finishing a slice of pizza, the mother takes it
from him and throws it on top of the trash. She
immediately picks it up and casually begins eating,
while observing an incident in the making across the
street.
I hear common people relish in the fact that they
can make it on the streets. That they have what it takes,
that they won’t be taken. She observes a man walking
into an ambush of thieves waiting in an alley. They
comfort themselves with this secret called street smarts
as they walk through life.
Stopping for a moment, she reflects on her own
life. I have lived on, off, and under the streets for as long
as I can remember... She sees the man almost at the
ambush. Or want to remember, and only now am I
beginning to understand. I say the smartest thing you
can do is not be somewhere at a certain time.
She spots a police car approaching and stands
in the middle of the street pointing into the alley. The
officer driving doesn’t see her until the last moment
and skids to a stop. He and the other officer in the
vehicle try to find what she’s motioning at, but don’t
see anything out of the ordinary. All of sudden, the
ambush takes place and the officers rush to aid the
citizen, stopping the mugging and chasing away the
thugs.
She watches as the man regains his composure.
Then, realizing that no one has noticed her, she turns
around and keeps walking.
Oh, and one more thing. I’m invisible.
Later that afternoon, as she approaches a
construction site, she looks up, way to the top of the
tall condolike
building, of which only part of the
framework stands. She enters through her secret
entrance and strolls inside the building carrying her
bag.
Construction on this beautiful building began,
and then all of a sudden stopped. It now stands alone
and empty. Only I know the secret entrance, and the
reason I know of it is because this is my new home.
She travels through a labyrinth of mazes and
obstacles to reach the top. Barriers that require
exceptional physical abilities to maneuver.
Arriving at her floor, she walks out to the edge
where no wall stands, just a large windowless space,
and looks out. Standing at the precipice of the cement
floor gazing at the beautiful city, the sunset sweeping
across the tops of buildings, she thinks, All things
considered, I’m not doing too badly. The top floor of an
exclusive apartment building, a great view, running
water, my overhead is low, and no noisy neighbors.
She sits down and takes out her beatup
notebook. “Now, to work on my poem.” She mumbles
as the page shows the beginnings of her work.
“Drawing it near to their face. No, that doesn’t sound
right.” She ponders for a moment until the inspiration
comes, “Their eyes. That’s it, drawing it near to their
eyes.” She continues. “They throw, no! They cast...they
cast it to the hard ground. Wait, wet ground.”
She pulls the paper away from her face and
reads the line. “Drawing it near to their eyes, they cast
it to the wet ground.” Nodding in approval she mutters,
“That sounds good, next line.” She continues working
and soon quietly drifts off to sleep, as the sun sets
behind her and the night skyline gently forms.
That evening she sits in a deserted alley,
between two dumpsters situated at the back door of a
restaurant, waiting patiently for the leftover food to be
thrown out and working diligently on her poem.
“Maybe they know not the way in, no. How about,
perhaps, yes that’s the word. Perhaps they know not
the way in.” She pauses to think, and catches a whiff
of the rich aroma coming from the kitchen. “That
smells good,” she says aloud, looking over at the
restaurant door, “tonight must be vegetable night.”
She looks back down at her notebook, “Think,
Lauren, know not the way in, ah, got it, as I know not
out.”
Suddenly the brightness from a car’s headlights
fills the alley, interrupting her thoughts. Hearing
voices, she rises and peers quietly through the partially
open dumpster lid.
Focusing on a black car about thirty feet away,
she sees four men get out all dressed in dark clothes.
The driver heads to the rear of the vehicle and opens
the trunk and another voice is heard as a man, whose
hands are tied behind his back, is pulled out.
Lauren’s eyes widen as she tries to stay still.
She hears the man’s cries clearly, as they escort him to
the wall and make him kneel before them.
“I have a family. I will keep quiet. I promise to do
anything. I promise, anything!” The man begins to
weep.
As Lauren watches this scene unfold, she
mutters, “I don’t believe this is happening.” She looks
at the four men. The first stands strong, carrying with
him a commanding presence. The second is a tall man,
blond and distinguished. The third is the driver, a fat
man who stays quiet and watches.
Then the fourth, he is young, perhaps eighteen.
She looks at him intently, noticing him struggling
inwardly. Not in a nervous manner, but more as if he’s
fighting a battle within himself. Then she turns her
attention back to the man on the ground.
“I have two sons, a wife. I beg of you!”
Lauren’s heart is pounding, her breathing
almost uncontrollable. She begins to tear up as the
first man takes out a shiny nickel .45 and screws a
silencer onto the end. The other three men stand as
strength to the first.
The first man finally speaks. His voice is cold,
raspy, and without remorse. “Do you know how many
times I’ve heard those words? ‘I had to pay my rent,’ or
‘It was a slow month.’” Raising his voice while
motioning with his gun he rasps, “I lent you that
money so you could start your food chain, you should
have had enough respect to put me first.”
Then the pleading man says, “I didn’t know you
were like this when I asked you for the money. I
thought you were an honest businessman.”
“No!” answers the first, “you thought if you
didn’t pay me, I would take you to court. You would
have lost there too.” He grimaces then finishes with,
“I’m a man of my word and you’re out of time.” He
points his weapon at the man’s head. The man closes
his eyes tight while jumbled entreaties flow out of his
mouth.
Please take a moment to visit my blog here and check out my interview with "Aylerion" to learn more about him.
Also visit his website, here.
He's a pretty cool guy. I think you'll be glad you got to know him before the rest of the world learns about him and you aren't even able to get close to him.
Until next time...stay safe, stay well, and may God bless you all.
Cynde
Please visit my other blogs:
Cynde's Daybook ~and~ Usurper Exposed. Thank you!
