Bread

Bread, Food, Bake, Loaf Of Bread, Snack, Bread Crust

She walked down the street cradling the loaf of bread like a new baby. Going into her flat and the kitchen, she set the bread down and dug out the butter and jam from the fridge. Sitting down, she remembered she needed a knife and got up quickly to get one.

Opening the bread, she took out two slices and made a jam sandwich. Taking a small bite, she sighed at the sweet taste of jam and the softness of the bread. She took the time to chew and swallow, before having another small bite. Avoiding stuffing her month all at once, she carried on nibbling at the sandwich.

Finishing she settled back, feeling the hunger held at bay but also disappointment. For a moment she debated having another, but then she quickly put everything away. Grabbing her purse, she tipped it up and counted out the two pounds in change she had left. Placing the cool coins back, she wondered how she was going to make that last for the rest of the week.

Roses

Old Rosella, the gypsy fortune teller, sells red roses on the city’s streets. All day she wanders tirelessly, calling out to passers-by and trying to trade the flowers in her hands. Her long heavy skirts drag and jingle on the floor. The bracelets coating her arms jangle alongside them and the beads in the woollen shawl covering her shoulders clink together.

In broken, but good English, she tells kissing lovers, ‘beautiful love. A rose for you.’

To woman, she calls, ‘a rose to bring passions to you. To bring you lucky love life.’

To men, she calls, ‘for your girl to show your promise love.’

They ignore her or give some excuse and move on. Rosella, doesn’t despair, but finds more people and walks through the evening, selling to the night crowd. Before it becomes too dark, she heads for home, clutching drooping steams and yet, somehow she sells a handful of roses every day.

To the edge of the city and the remains of an abandoned factory she goes. Nestled within the crumbling block concrete walls and open to the starry sky is her home- a tradition gypsy caravan. Not many people come this way and those that do stay clear of the pretty coloured wheeled home. She went in and sitting down, but the roses into a vase. She lit her little stove and settled in for the night, knowing that tomorrow she would have to roam the streets again trying to make what little money she could.

Streets

Norman watched the first snowflakes falling as he huddled in his sleeping bag. It was a bad sign, though he wasn’t surprised by it. Clutching the paper cup, which rattled with a handful of coins, he watched the city shoppers and business people hurry about. It seemed to Norman that only the children and teenagers turned their heads upwards in wonder and watched the snowflakes drifting.

‘Spare any change, please?’ he called in a croaky voice.

Legs moved swiftly passed him whilst eyes voided contacted with him. He dropped his head, pulling down the too small woollen hat at the same time. Breathing deeply into his wild beard, he thought about what he was going to do now the snow had arrived. There’s that church shelter, he pondered, that was good last year. Or that other shelter place…what was it called? He shook his head, the name completely escaping him.

He lent back and listened to the many voices all round. Most seemed engaged in exciting conversations, asking directions, or other questions, carol singing and bells ringing came from around the corner. He tried to make out the song, but couldn’t put his finger on it.

‘Spare any change, please?’ he muttered.

More feet passed by, arms swinging with heavy bags, bodies seemingly ignoring him. He sighed and wondered for the countless time how it had come to this. Bad turn of events, he concluded. Coins clinked and he glanced up. An elderly woman, wrapped in a large brown coat, was dropping money into the cup.

‘Thank you. Merry Christmas,’ Norman said.

‘You too,’ she replied, before turning away.

He watched her go and feeling slightly better, called out to other people for their kindness.