Sad Jack – Microfiction

Fiction. A short story. The sky streaks red with the first rays of the morning sun. The rumbling of morning rush hour traffic vibrates me to the core of my being. The hum of tires on pavement dominates the otherwise still morning air. A gunshot echoes in from the distance. I shiver, vainly trying to shake off the cold that has seeped into my bones through the threadbare relic of World War One that I sleep in. Snow has fallen overnight, and the world beyond the small dry strip beneath the overpass where I lay is blanketed in white, looking clean is a way it never does without the covering. I sit up and wonder where I will find a meal today. I hear another gunshot. Closer this time. I shiver again, this time in fear. I lie back down and squeeze back into the shadows, trying to hide my presence from whoever is firing their gun. I hear shouting now, loud enough to be heard over the noise of the highway mere inches above me. The voices are coming closer. I hear running footsteps echoing under the overpass, and then they are gone. The shouts are still getting closer, and now I can hear what they are saying. They are the embodiment of my worst fears, they are the police. I squeeze further into the shadows of my hiding place, as if I could simply disappear entirely by doing so. Suddenly my ears are ringing. The police are shooting mere feet from my hiding place above their heads, the reports amplified in the restricted space under the highway. I lose count of the gunshots, my …