FlashNano2024 7 Write a story about The Feral Woman’s Shoes

 

Me? My name is Sandra Oldenbrook and I am a Creative Non-Fiction Writer. 

What is that?

A writer who using literary styles and techniques such as such as scenes and dialogues to recreate a factual story or book.

To do it well, it is necessary for me to live the story that I'm trying to tell. 

At the moment, I have a contract to write a book, A Woman Living Raw. To do that I had to live as a homeless woman for a month.

It seemed silly to buy clothes to be homeless, but I couldn't pretend to be homeless in my expensive clothes...okay, I'm a clotheshorse. I went to the Salvation Army Store and bought the crapiest slacks and sweatshirt I could find. The jacket which would have been horrible anyway, well, I took scissors to it in two places. (I did take my nice underwear.)

Wow. It was harder than I thought. The first place where I tried to put my smelly sleeping bag, someone told me it was Marie's spot. But then a woman Anita showed me a place next to her semi tent. She offered me a sip of her wine, saying "Just this once because you're new."

Over the days, I got to know the other people sleeping raw: a student whose parents threw him out when they learned he was gay, a couple of drunks who were harmless-Lannie, a mother with a five year old girl. She was terrified the Child Wellfare Service would take her away and put her in a foster home. She said having her child with her made people more generous. Slowly she opened up to me.

The half ground, half broken cement made me long for my own bed. When I fell asleep I dreamed of a hot shower and a full English Breakfast at Alistair's British Café.

It had been years since I wrote long hand. I thought maybe taking notes would make the others wonder, but most were so entrenched into their own worlds, I don't think they noticed.

Some days, especially when it was raining, I went to the library to use their laptops. People moved away from me when I sat down at a table. I know I smelled.

The hardest thing was the old shoes which I'd found by a dumpster. They were my size. Walking back from the library last night, I realized half the soul on the right side became loose making walking difficult. 

For the first time in two weeks, I cried. I know I can end this project anytime but Lannie, Marie, Anita and the others can't. Life has them beaten some because of no fault of their own. There are those where drugs have taken control. More than one woman seemed to be mentally ill.

My book is written. It will be published in the spring. I'm back home with my own clothes, shoes and soft warm bed. I showered twice a day my first few days home, alternated at cooking and eating in restaurants. 

Whenever I saw a homeless person begging, I would give them at least ten dollars, maybe more, depending on their situation always thinking, there but for the grace of a god go I.