An excerpt from my attempt at Nanowrimo so far:
The beggar woman clutched her filthy shawl closer to her body, as if by drawing it tighter she would be able to ward off the pain and cold of abandonment. It wasn’t the winters that were so hard; the weather she could take. It was the knowledge that she would be alone for yet another one of them. Some days she wished she could just go to sleep in a quiet corner and never wake up, she even prayed for God to take her while she slept peacefully; but other days, like today, she knew she would – she had to – do whatever it took to survive yet another morn.
Besides, she told herself, there was fat chance of her finding a quiet, peaceful corner in a city as big and bustling as this. When she finally found it – the place where she would lay her head and go to eternal rest, she would know, believed the beggar woman. Until then, she would do whatever she could to eke out an existence. And when summer finally came again, as it would, she would try to make her way down south, to the lands that her children once spoke of. To the lands that never tired of sunshine, where warmth would nourish her brittle bones and she would be able to feel her fingers at last.
The beggar woman lifted her head from the ground where she was kneeling. Lying prostrate served many purposes when you lived on the streets. It was protection against the cold, the body’s way of best preserving what meagre heat she could manage when hunger pangs struck, merciless like lightning. It made her look desperate to passers-by – perhaps if they thought she was near death they would spare her a coin or two, even a dollar if she was really lucky.
But most important, it saved her from having to watch the people as they hurried past her, each to their own day and the rest of their lives, pretending that they were too busy to stop or to notice her. Sometimes she tried to make eye contact, but the pity that reflected back at her was an image of herself she did not need to see. If they pitied her so, thought the beggar woman, why didn’t they put a coin in her outstretched palm, the fingers gnarled from old age, the ends numb from the bitter chill? Why didn’t they offer her a crumb off their loaves, the smells of which only made her hungrier as they scurried past, leaving the air fragrant in their wake?
The beggar woman rose slowly before the pins and needles took hold. She supposed she should thank the Lord that even though she was homeless, hungry and dirty, she was at least mobile and physically able. She could walk, she could use both hands, she could talk. She could feed herself and clean herself, she could – thank the Lord – beg.
She did not cough the way some did, as if their lungs would burst with each rasp and their voices would dissipate with each convulsive effort. She did not walk with a limp like others did, their knees eaten up with rheumatism. She had ten fingers and ten toes with five senses to accompany her shell, what more could she ask for? Except, thought the beggar woman as she stooped a little lower, hoping that someone would do more than just cast her a pitying glance, except perhaps, a home.
- Inspired by the many beggars that work the streets of Paris and Rome
I cannot for the life of me imagine how I’m going to write 50,000 words by the end of the month. The key to Nanowrimo, as we’re constantly reminded, is to keep writing. Even if it’s absolute crap.
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