An old man sat under a bridge smothered with graffiti. It was damp and dark, and the river splayed reflective beams of light across his wrinkled and wizened face. ‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions,’ the man said. To whom? There was no one around, but a single boy with a skateboard slung over his backpack. The man’s eyes gleamed. He hobbled a little bit out of the shadows of the bridge. ‘Eh, mate!’ The boy looked over. ‘Couldn’t spare some change for an old man to get some dinner, could ya?’
Hearsay: On Dit's creative writing edition.