#VisDare 91 : Reverie

I waved my hand at the buildings around the small courtyard. “Ain’t much hope here. Just concrete, and rust.” I looked at the reporter. “And death. Ain’t much hope here.”

He didn’t move. Just sat on the bench, and looked around.

He’d never visited my part of town. There were no stores, no restaurants, but you could buy crack on every corner, and get shot for no damn reason. And if you died on the street, your body could be there for days.

I leaned back on my bench, held my trumpet up. “People need hope, and I do what I can to give them some.”

I played. A lonely voice. A ray of light. A thread of hope. In a concrete hell. The only sounds beside my trumpet were a mother’s cries at the loss of her son, and every now and then, shots fired from a gun.

149 Words
@LurchMunster

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Another story I pieced together for Angela Goff’s Visual Dare. I’m writing more, and that feels good. Please read the other entries in this week’s Visual Dare challenge.

The Eighth Edition of Friday Night Write : Hope Remains

Sash woke up in a bed. A real bed. With sheets. And blankets. And pillows. Something was wrong. She never woke up in a bed. She remembered passing out on the park bench. And she had passed out. The fix had worked. Made her feel happy. Made her relax. Made her forget the pain of her life.

She sometimes wondered why she just didn’t die.

But now, she was in a bed. She sat up, and moved the covers down to her waist. She was dressed. In flannel pajamas. And those pajamas felt good. Warm. Clean.

My god, she was clean. Her hair was clean. Her face, her neck, shoulders. All of her was clean. She didn’t remember taking a bath. Or a shower. She didn’t remember anything. She didn’t have any idea at all where she was.

She got out of the bed. Found slippers next to it. Soft and fuzzy. She put her feet in them. Decided to keep them on. She walked around the room she was in. There was a window, with curtains, on one side of the room. Sunlight was coming through the curtains. She walked to the window, pulled the curtain aside, and looked out.

Outside, there was grass. And trees. And a garden. With flowers. She found herself staring at the flowers. They were so beautiful. There was no place like that in the city. No place at all.

Where the hell was she?

There was a knock on the door. Followed by a voice, “Miss Sash?”

She answered, “Yes.”

“May I come in?”

“Yes.”

The door opened. It was a woman. Maybe in her early 40s. “I’m glad to see you’re awake. Would you like something to eat?”

At first, Sash wanted to scream, “Yes!” Food sounded so good. She couldn’t remember her last real meal. But, she caught herself. And took a more cautious approach. “Who are you?”

The woman smiled. It was a disarming smile. “I’m Cynthia. I work for Mr Harland. This,” she looked around the room, “is Mr. Harland’s home.”

“Harland?”

“Yes, Miss Sash. Harland. The owner of Harland Enterprises.” Cynthia smiled. “You are wondering why you are here, no doubt.” Then Cynthia had started toward the door of the room, “I’ll let Mr. Harland answer all of your questions. He is expecting you. Please follow me.”

Sash thought she was dreaming.She’d heard stories about Mr. Harland. How people living on the street would one day vanish, showing up a year or two later. Completely different.

Cynthia was speaking as she led Sash through the halls of Mr. Harland’s home. “Mr. Harland makes it his personal work to find lost spirits. Wounded souls. Broken hearts. And give them a second chance. All of us that work here were once lost, like you, Miss Sash. Mr. Harland found us. One at a time. And brought us here, so he could show us that hope remains.”