short story pt 1 A short storyHer soles were on fire.No heads turned as she swept by the cafes filled with small parties.This was old city,tall buildings made of yellow stone,abandoned or occupied by immigrants.Poverty is smelled with the nose as well as the soul,her mother used to tell her,and it rang true now.Deeper in the forest of cold stone,the bands of friends grew smaller and fewer.No lighted bars to buy drinks for your friends.No crowds to slip through here,she reminded herself,edging closer to the filthy stonework.As if to prove her wrong, a small throng of youths just outside a Russian foodstore had gathered to watch the show.Gor,the burly-moustac
Sta.sh
