mp, loathed by many who ed his kind filth, slept ath the dank bridge, the he had done so in quite a ving been chased away by n who turned up their disgust upon the sight of
st shafts of daylight crept r the bridge, driving away ngers. The tramp stirred ned his eyes, jolted by the resses of the sun. d in ragged slacks and a ith a faded emblem, the wned loudly, drawing curis from passers- by who ooked away when the rected his gaze at them. His hazel eyes revealed a ceree of intelligence. His dirty oncealed a well bronzed ich bore the punishment of day after day. Judging from the tramp was barely 16. ked up the cardboard box rved as his mattress, and into squares with deft nts. Then he emerged into of the day, and headed to haunt. he spent his days, surby drunkards and piles of d empty beer bottles. amp could be seen working arded maths exercise book, stimulate his brain and mething of his life.
Coins filled the rusty container with which the tramp used, to beg for money.
When the pangs of hunger stirred in his belly, he weaved his way through a maze of streets before ending up at a community soup kitchen.
The aid workers smiled when they saw him. Besides handing him a plate of hot meal, the workers had set aside a folder with educational materials for him. The tramp’s eyes sparkled with gratitude as he received the materials with trembling hands.
After a shower and a change of clothes, the tramp entered the labyrinth of narrow streets before emerging near the emergency exit of a hospital. He made his way to a particular ward in the hospital, and stopped beside the bed of a woman.
“Hi, Mum,” he called in a soft voice.
His heart was filled with ache, long nurtured by years of living on the streets and the death of most of his family members in a horrific accident. Yip ren- Wei wins the Creative Writing prize for March. He walks away with Pseudonymous Bosch’s
and Peter Lerangis’
( worth rM119.90) and a rM30 book voucher courtesy of MPH.