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Hobo: A Horror Short Story

There isn’t a real post per say. There is no real discussion going on here. This is just some good old fashion shameless self-promotion!

Besides posting articles on this site, ranging anywhere from history to horror movie reviews and even a random political conversation, besides all that,  I also fancy myself a fiction writer. I dabble a little in the dark arts of horror fiction and suspense and while I’m waiting for one short story title to be considered for publication with TOR, I’m biding my time with another short story. For whatever reason, other than just getting this out there for people to read, I’ve decided to self publish this second piece, called “Hobo: A horror short story.”

Here is an exurb for your reading pleasure:


The red glow of the traffic was eternal. Beverly wiped what looked to be a crumb off her Ivanka Trump dress pants, pretending as if the hobo was not there, in the median, next to her luxury car. She said a small prayer of thanks that the valet had stored her shopping bags in the trunk. She remembered handing the young twenty-something a Hamilton as he closed her door. He was handsome and young. She fantasied a late night rondevu, perhaps a bar encounter. “What are you having,” she’d ask. He was silent in her mind; his deep blue eyes did the talking, and his toned arms, and legs…and the tight bulge in his designer jeans. Her smile curved with hunger, but quickly went away. From her peripheral, she could tell that the hobo was talking to her now, muttering something inaudible through her tinted driver’s side window. He began to tilt the sign to give her a better angle.  Beverly thought of turning on the radio, but decided against it. She did not want to make any movement that would suggest she was reaching for anything. Her eyes remained fixed on the light.

“Please turn, please turn. Come on – turn,” she breathed.

The man abandoned his resting place and shuffled toward her. Beverly dared a glance. And for a moment they locked eyes. She could see his deep brown irises’ and the swollen blue and purple bags underneath. His cheeks were hollow. Afraid to take breaths through her nose, Beverly swore she could smell his stink of skunk and booze choking through the window. Sneaking another glance, she could see something else in those browns, there was something other than hunger, perhaps anger or resentment because she was well off and he was poor, or maybe she was the only vehicle stopped at the light, the only one he could beg and bother. Or perhaps because he didn’t like women and meant her harm. Or maybe he was drunk, she wasn’t for certain, but whatever it was, she despised those morose eyes. She despised that he was looking at her, judging her for not giving him money.

The hobo was off the curb and in the gutter when Beverly waved her hand, dismissing him with the universal sign for, “Sorry, no money. Please go away.” The man kept coming. Reaching her driver side door, he placed a surprisingly large hand on the dark glass. Smearing dirt or whatever else collected from lying in the street. The hobo smiled at her, exposing gaps where teeth had once resided, and those that remained were both yellow and nasty. He let his sign drop to the ground, moving his other hand up, cupping the tinted window, peering inside. Beverly reached for the locking mechanism, again. The bolts danced back and forth, unable to lock any further. The man opened his mouth wide, brandishing his black tongue, and fogged her window with a long drawn exhale. With one large finger he wrote, “Hungry” in the cloud.

If you are interested in reading more, you can check it out on Amazon Kindle.

Or, if you are interested in being an “not so” advanced reader and receive a free copy (PDF) of Hobo and are able to leave a review on Amazon, just let me know via comment or private message.



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