Juxtaposed next to the rather large effigy of the late Garth McKinnon, the beggar painted a stark truth of the reality for many within the city of Caleah. His hands were blistered and white from exposure to the elements. His feet were bare and dirty, the soles blackened with the dirt of the city.
“Right, Marc, time to move on,” the constable approached from the nearby open-air market, alongside his partner.
“Just one more hour, sir, I’ve nearly enough to feed myself today and tomorrow,” Marc reached forward, snatching his upturned cap, and stuffing the change into his pockets, before placing the hat back on his head.
“You know the rules, Marc, no loitering. Thirty minutes and you’ve to move on.” The constable offered a hand to Marc, lifting him from the cobble. Leaning in, he whispered in Marc's ear, “I’ve heard there’re a number of tourists out on Red Bay, for a boating race. I’m sure you’ll have some luck there.” He wiped the muck that transferred from Marc’s hands to his on his uniform.
“Thank you, sir. May the Weaver bless you, sir.” Marc looked around, making sure he collected up all of his earnings for the morning. With a tip of his cap, he bid the officers good-bye and, on the constable's suggestion, headed to Red Bay.
“What did you tell him, sir?” asked the constable’s partner.
The constable adjusted his helmet, “Nothing, private. See over there?” He pointed back to the market, “A fight’s just broken out in front of Martha’s Jam stand, let’s be on our way.”
Today's prompt: his feet were bare
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