child in rags He pointed his bloody finger at the child in rags. The child in rags stood on the grimy streetcorner, face smeared with coal dust. He looked like an urchin in a Big Eye painting. "You're filled with maggots, rotting inside," said the man sternly. "For all the world, I wouldn't touch you." The blood, which was not yet dry, dripped more slowly from his finger than it had before, until finally one drop hung there, glinting dully, and began to cloud over. His lean face was like yellow wax. The drop did not fall until he flicked it off. It made a single red spot on the half-melted snow. The boy shivered. Dirty gray snowflakes began to come down. The man crooked his finger and beckoned. "Come with me." He turned. He was tall yet stooped, his shoulders rounded with premature age. He couldn't have been more than thirty. Once he had turned, he did not look back. The boy trotted obediently along behind him, his big six-year-old feet marking the snow.
	location: Denver, Colorado date: Summer 1993 average rating: [not rated] your rating (0-10):