‘No Place For My Hat’ By TRACY CHARPENTIER

I didn’t sleep, I lay awake; my back against the concrete, my head in the filthy dirt which smelled of old piss and stale liquor. The hour before the sun comes up is always the coldest hour. The dew settles on your skin, even under your clothes, there is always a point just before then when the wind stops and all is quiet, the birds don’t sing, the trees don’t sing and the only thing moving is the river as it quietly rolls along the shore. I often dreamed of simply rolling my body into the water and letting it carry me away. No one would miss me, any of us, people would walk on as normal, nobody sees us, we are ghosts, remnants of lives lost, ruined by drugs and war.

Vote for this Short Story

  • *One Vote per person - duplicate and suspect votes will be deleted
  • A vote is a no-obligation authorization for SOOP to contact you in the future about the progress of this literary work.

Voting Status

Countdown to 500

492

votes remaining

  • 20 Votes – Manuscript evaluation completed by curator with editorial comments
  • 25 Votes – Publishing contract offer
  • 200 Votes – Eligibility for a reader newsletter feature
  • 500 Votes – Eligibility for a double royalty

*More than 25 votes are not needed, but are encouraged, and will earn you additional benefits

MENU

Something or Other Publishing, LLC