Arabica

Day 1,473 since arrival in New York (four years, 13 days), and nothing seemed better. The same bad back from the uneven trash stuffed in the mattress. Same breakfast: nothing. Same laundry: ragged, worn, but clean. Same walk: not tiring, but painful for my back. I was tired of the same old thing happening every day, but my back was just worse and worse. Everything seemed awful. But, something strange and new appeared. I always scavenge the ground looking for dropped money to find and keep. Instead of finding a lose dollar or two, i found a strange piece of paper. I turned from the blank side to the front. There I was a lot of information packed in, but several that went together struck me. At the top it read "Admit One: Arabica." Then on the next line it read "Cabin: First Class, 01." And then, "Departure: New York, New York :: Arrival: Tangier, Morocco" immediately, I knew that some rich Arab living in a huge palace had to have accidentally dropped it. I had to get out of New York. There was no obligation for me to stay here any more, so I decided to get on the boat which coincidentally left that afternoon.


I handed the man there the ticket.

"ID," the guard said.

"What ID?" I asked him confused

"Ye heard me... show me yer ID!" He shouted holding out his hand violently.

"Oh, I didn't know we needed an ID to board the ship... could you please spare me a trip to my apartment? Its all the way over in the Bronx." I pleaded using my cute begging dog expression.

"Ugh, FINE!!!" He took my ticket ripped it and allowed me entrance into the appallingly magnificent steam ship, the Arabica.

Lurking in the Shadows

My name is Gregory. I don't have a very interesting life. I live alone in my 60 square feet tenement apartment and barely cover my overhead by working in a factory that makes caps. I have one friend, named Chester, who works with me at the bellows of one of the furnaces that forgers use to turn metal scraps into "exquisitely hand-made caps," as the boss calls them. Chester is a hilarious, short, but strongly built boy of about 12 years old, 6 year younger than me. His happiness and optimism really brightens my day when I don't feel good, and his jokes make work fun all four people who work at bellows number 5. But even though his jokes were good for one year, three other years of hard factory work, and poor living conditions, really made me annoyed. Bosses of good companies were living in large, extravagant  houses where they had a butler a beautiful wife and many children who went to the only the best schools. They could only accept the best treatment. We the people were living in tenement apartments and working as hard as we possibly could for the lowest wage possible. We didn't have a choice, we were forced to live with the worst treatment. I was getting sick and tired of people looking down to us and spitting in our faces to show just how much better they were from us. Something had to get better soon... and somehow... it did!