An odd spot to beg, he hears them say, but they don’t see. No one sees beyond the outstretched hand, the grime-encrusted fingers, the barely-there shoe leather. Certainly not the face. He has a beard of sorts, and scratches and scabs to distract them, but he knows his eyes are the same. If only they could see as far as his eyes.

He’d no more intended to end up here than he intended to end up homeless. He’d heard that one too: ‘They choose to be homeless’. Yeah. Life as an economic cycle: discuss. He’d be a case history for sure, boom to bust in 18 months – new job, new love, marriage, mortgage, partnership, bigger mortgage, affair, separation, redundancy, depression, divorce, eviction, homeless. The cruellest form of bingo.

Still the steps are dry, the takings ok and his hatred of the passersby intense. That’s the draw, that fuel, that brings him here.

Continue reading here: Passage to nowhere #writephoto #microfiction