©2021

Rain, brittle – on the verge of breaking.
On the very cusp of transformation.
To sleet first, then probably…probably to snow.

‘Snow would be definitely better’, he thought as he huddled tight – so very, very tight – into the thin threadbare parka.

The recessed doorway, shallow, dank and dark offered very little protection from the driving, almost horizontal slash of cold misery that beat all about him.

The icy assault stung his face, beat against his hair, sodden, stringy, wet and wild.

The old and cold cobble stone stoop was somewhat hollowed out from years of passages. Deformed with age such that it allowed a pool of cold icy rainwater to build up around his feet.

If he thought about the seeping sensation of his soggy shoes he felt he might just lose it. Might just scream, that he’d had enough. He’d had more than enough and his sanity, such as what  remained, was in too fragile a state to endure even one more minute of this relentless assault.

He was helpless – hopeless and completely defeated. Nowhere to go, ‘nary a sou’ to his name with no hope of that changing in the next little while.

The Mission, as unappealing as it was, was too far across town to even think about trying to walk it in this storm.

And his anger and frustration regarding the events that brought him this far away from that lomely sanctuary did nothing to  soothe the situation.

He was stuck – he was cold – he was ready to die. And he thought tonight he might. And, with a slight surge of inner warmth, he realised that – that didn’t really matter, did it? There was nothing left. Hope was a lonely word, care was way too far away from his compass of expectation.

He lifted one sodden foot from the icy pool and attempted to shake some of the water from his foot. He put it back into the  water and did the same with his other foot.

As he did so, he felt himself slipping – slipping backwards. Perhaps some ice had started to form and that was what caused him to lose his balance. Part of his mind wrapped itself around that irrelevancy as with a fluid flowing motion his back arched, his arms windmilled in attempt to remain upright.

But with a crackling smash, he fell hard into the wall at his back…..and the door that was part of it.

As he realised he was probably about to lose consciousness as his head bounced off the doorframe, the force of his fall snicked at the bounds of the door and it…..popped open with a swoosh.

For a few moments, as he regained his sense of place and moment, lying there flat on his back, he felt – he felt, relieved.

For here, now – in this alien and unexpected place, he had finally found -for the moment or maybe for the entire night – shelter.

This miniStory was written to either use, or address, the writing prompt,   shelter

©michael moore 2010