Homeless

by michaelcahill

I can't say I've done anything to merit the life of pure comfort and joy I've been bequeathed. I admit, I've contributed nothing to my posh existence, but I like to think I've done nothing to warrant this current change of fortune either. To be cast out unceremoniously, without notice, and so discourteously, is beyond the pale, if you ask me. Of course, no one's asked.

Why wouldn't there be the slightest consideration for my feelings, or future? Is the small space I occupy, my corner of existence, of such value to them, and I of such inconsequence?

It is a given I am untrained and ill-equipped for whatever awaits me ... I'm equipped for nothing. Is this physical disregard necessary?

I gasp at my first glimpse of my new surroundings. They are raucous and overly bright, blinding to be candid. I just want to cry ...

"It's a boy!"

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150 Flash Fiction

A chapter in the book Short Stories and Flash

Homeless

by michaelcahill

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