Jankuman pedaled his three-wheel bike down the deserted street, excitement growing. Yesterday he’d found a fluffy bear and a child’s metal lunchbox. The day before, he’d come upon a weathered book with a dog-eared page, abandoned at the deserted stationhouse. He’d run his fingers along the words, breathless.
Just a week earlier, he’d peered through a scrim of old weather on an apartment glass, and seen a table set for four: with cups, and bowls, and one fat spoon. The only problem being that such a find could not be carried back in the basket of his bike. Such riches a man like him had never dreamed.
“You have to leave,” cityman told him. And so he’d learned to hide when the itachiman prowled the streets.
All the salarymen gone; taken every honorable wife—and all their playday children. And what was left: such riches!
He’d never felt so close.
This week I wanted to write poetry. I’m always moved by abandoned spaces. But alas, it came out too grim. So prose instead… about a man who may be part poet, part mad. As always, thanks for reading.
In other news: I completed Nanowrimo! BFNever is 63,000+ (largely incomprehensible) words. I’ve basically completed the dumpster fire of literature.