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faceless (prose)

You couldn’t really call him homeless. He always felt comfortable where he was. Always able to sleep well on any given surface.. He never considered something as cliche as ‘the city is my home’. No, he just never really considered having a home. This is how he wanted to live, without any connections or attachments. He didn’t even dream of having anything more. Real dreams. Sleeping dreams. Not aspirations. Hell, he didn’t even want respect. There was no talking to strangers or introductions. He’d gone so long without telling anyone his name that even having one was an alien concept to him. He really was a nobody. Not even a noticeable background extra.
There was a couple things that were important to him, though. But just a couple. He never let go of his hat or coat. Never. He’d had them so long that he couldn’t even remember if he found them or if they were given to him by some kind stranger. The worn hat was an old fedora like the ones in old black and white movies. Well, almost. There were a few patches where the brown felt-like material had been worn down giving off the impression of grease spots. The parts where the brim was supposed to curve up stood out almost straight and even drooped just a little, weakened from an old constant habit of trying to reshape it the way it was supposed to be. It gave the impression of a detective that’s been in the rain too long. The trench-coat he wore helped that image along real well. The end of the coat near the knees had been wearied threadbare from the endless Chicago wind. There were only two buttons left but they were nowhere near each other, so never buttoned. Not even in the snow. No matter how frayed the coat became he never tried to find another. He’s even gone through shirts that became too tattered to wear without changing coats. He’s even been shirtless under the big rag a few times, but found strangers to be less kind at these times. Being dressed under the coat is important, even if only for other people. And when it snows.
Other people. Strangers. He didn’t actually depend on them, but they could help from time to time. He never begged for anything in his life. He couldn’t even bring himself to ask for anything from anyone even if he was starving in the cold. Some of the other homeless people, the actual homeless people, looked up to him for this reason. He’s sort of a god to them almost. Every now and then a stranger would just do something for him. A passerby seeing him rest his heels on a bench would sometimes just give him something. A half eaten sandwich, a buck or two, even a blsnket just out of the goodness within them. Once a man even gave him a shirt right off his back. The man was wearing extra ones for the cold and was probably just trying to impress the girl he was with, but he’d never balk at a needed charity. He was never ungrateful for anything he had, even if it was something he found in the trash. He always wore a kind smile for anyone who took the time to look in his direction.
He was actually one of the nicest people I ever met. I wish I had taken an extra instant to find his name on the countless times I passed by and said hello. I would usually give him part of my lunch I hadn’t eaten on many occasions. I was usually in a bit of a hurry. Being a cop tends to put me in a bit of a rush after eating. He wasn’t outside in the park where I usually take my lunch the past few days. I had even ordered a little extra just to have something to give him. I worry about him a little when it’s cold. I guessed he had moved on to wherever he could get a good bite or something.
Now, though, looking down at him, I truly regret not having his name. I never thought about the nameless people the city’s burned or buried. Someone has to fill out the paperwork when the homeless are found stabbed in the park. I just stood shocked when I realized who it was and rushed down to the morgue. The coroner patted my shoulder.
“You know him? ” He asked.
“Kinda. Just a face in the park. Where’s his clothes?”
“In a bin around here somewhere. Can’t think of anyone who’d want to be buried in those rags.”
“He would.” I said in a coarse whisper.

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Editing stage: 

Comments

The beginning was excellent as was the pacing, the theme, well it was a cracking good all round story. So good i'm feeling sorry for faceless. Excellent . Regards Roscoe..

Roscoe Llane,

Religion will rip your faith off, and return
for the mask of disbelief that's left.

This piece of work is more short story, rather than prose. (and an excellent short story, too boot!)

a couple of things:
In this sentence: He’s sort of a god to them almost.
I think you could leave out "almost"

A half eaten sandwich, a buck or two, even a blsnket just out of the goodness within them
fix the typo in this sentence.

I found this extremely good reading for content. And the end really got to me. Kudos!

Now, though, looking down at him, I truly regret not having his name. I never thought about the nameless people the city’s burned or buried. Someone has to fill out the paperwork when the homeless are found stabbed in the park. I just stood shocked when I realized who it was and rushed down to the morgue. The coroner patted my shoulder.
“You know him? ” He asked.
“Kinda. Just a face in the park. Where’s his clothes?”
“In a bin around here somewhere. Can’t think of anyone who’d want to be buried in those rags.”
“He would.” I said in a coarse whisper.

When you fling poo, some of the stink sticks to you!

"The Book of Styx" can be ordered and purchased on line at:
http://eddystyx.mythramuse.com/

This is a wonderful story, I love the way you went into detail about the hat and coat, held me riveted to every word. I remember a film with Gene Hackman, two old tramps together, that had the same flavour, although some might find it distasteful. I read a book long ago about a 'Beloved Vagabond,' and always wished to be such a one and roam like the Gypsies; so I understand him in a way.

This is a style of your own, or American style that I don't know. Such as "there was a couple of things that were...there were a couple.....

" blsnket" blanket.

" I would usually give him part of my lunch I hadn’t eaten on many occasions." Usually...on many occasions!
"the city’s burned or buried." do you mean the cities?

I would almost end it, in a hoarse whisper?

BUT I like its style a bit like the ol man hiself. :)

Ann

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

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