Roads traveled

 He shuffled his feet, feeling tiny pebbles through the worn soles of his boots, a testament to a man well-traveled on the streets. The pockets of his pants were filled with lint and a few coins, likely found on the ground, as no one was paying him for anything. In the silence of early morning, he could hear the sound of liquid splashing around in the half-full bottle in his jacket pocket—a treat for later, if he could hold on for a while.

He reached behind his ear and retrieved half of a cigarette—a lady’s, he guessed, because it was smeared with lipstick and tasted good. He considered lighting it but decided to wait, hoping he would stumble upon a camp with coffee brewing and be offered a cup. However, he didn’t hold out much hope for that.

Many years had passed since he took to the trails, rails, and paths well-traveled by those like him who had lost faith in life. The man who once gave his best efforts was mostly gone now; the importance of success had vanished along with his desire to be part of the rat race he left behind.

Crouching in the bushes, he waited for a slow-moving freight train to pass by before he jumped on board an empty boxcar and settled in for the long ride. He had no idea where he would get off, but it had to be better than where he had already been. Soon, the hypnotic sound of the train, punctuated by occasional blasts of the horn, lulled him to sleep—a peaceful sleep where dreams came alive and life reminded him of better times.

The screeching brakes jolted him awake, leaving him uncertain whether it was early morning or late at night. He jumped off and vanished into the woods and trails ahead. Soon, he came upon a small camp, where the smell of brewing coffee filled the air, and he was welcomed. He asked for half a cup as he took the half-filled bottle from his pocket and topped it off while lighting the lipstick-stained cigarette. Life felt good at that moment, and he smiled for the first time in a long while. 

— Mike, 2025