The night walk of the hobo

Un autre petit texte, mais on s’essaie à différent genre…!

marilyn-levineA chill went down his spine when he took another sip of wine. He bundled up in his coat.

“Shit, it’s raining again.” He muttered. He stood up, wavering for a minute, and started to look for the closest bridge. He swallowed the next sip, felt the wine flow down his throat and tingling rising up his cheeks. A fireball grew in his belly and he got warmer. The hobo stretched and yawned loudly. He decided to stop for a moment next to a streetlamp. He looked at the little shining lights falling from the sky. This mesmerizing sight made his head spin. In a second, he found himself on the ground. When he tried to get up from the floor, he noticed a little hole on his boot.

“Crap! – He shouted – Go to hell Jimmy, these shoes are as solid as a rock, bullshit.”

He was about to get up when he heard a strange squeaking. He listened attentively.

“Whatever man! – Answered the boots – shoes are made for dancing! “

A nervous laughter hit the hobo. He shook his head and drunk his wine until the very last drop.

He jumped to his feet and hit the road again. He was whistling.

When he arrived at the bridge, he placed a blanket within a narrow recess and lay down on it. He fell asleep.

Above his hand, the moon was reflected in a puddle.


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