Written by Blue-Eyed Devil

He stretched out his hand. Wet. It was wet, falling from the sky. He had never liked it. It was always cold. It made his nose run. He couldn’t feel his fingers. What was the point in finger-less gloves anyway?

He pulled his hand back under the dripping cardboard roof. It was a good home, but if this downfall kept going like it was it would start to sag. Then it would fall apart and then he’d have to find a new home. The prospect scared him. Everyone wanted the best home. Sometimes they’d fight over them. He wasn’t much for brawling. Never had the knack for fistfights.

He watched as a pair of feet ran by his door. Two different shoes, different sizes. Another like him, then. Trying to find a home tonight. He guessed that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t like being wet.

Eyes clenched tight, he tried to remember being warm. It was hard. It had been for some time but he managed to pull some shade of memory from the recesses of his brain, somehow, and he suddenly felt a bit less cold. The power of the mental process? Could he summon a pair of gloves that had fingers on from nothing too?

With a soggy sigh, the roof of his house gave out. His shoulders slumped as a cascade of cold wetness trickled over his woollen hat and down his back, sending shivers up his spine and dispelling the imaginary warmth he had been able to pull up from his mind.

He guessed he’d have to look for a new home now anyway; either that or go to sleep in the cold. Continue reading →