From the pages of the Whiskey Woven Dreams Journal.
Lefty sat on an overturned milk crate in the alley behind a liquor store, his back pressed against a graffiti-stained brick wall. His one foot, the good one, rested on a busted pallet while the stub of his other leg—where a foot used to be—itched beneath the cheap prosthetic he could barely afford. He never complained, though. Pain was part of the deal.
A half-smoked cigarette dangled between his cracked lips. He exhaled slow, watching the smoke twist up into the dim glow of the streetlight. His fingers, stained yellow from years of bad choices, flicked at the embers like he was counting time. Not by seconds or minutes—Lefty didn't need a watch. He counted time in regrets.
There had been a day when he stood tall, owned the street. A street hustler, slick with words, eyes that could read a man better than a poker deck. If you had something to lose, Lefty could smell it on you. He'd play you slow, let you think you were in control, then take what he wanted and disappear into the night.
And the women—God, the women. Every wild card joker had a cigarette-smoking, morally dirty woman with a prowl and a smile.
Then came Jolene.
She slithered into his life like bad luck wrapped in a red dress. Her voice was whiskey, her laugh was sin. They’d spend nights tangled in motel sheets, stoned and reckless, promising each other things neither of them meant. She made him believe he wasn’t alone. She made him soft.
One night, he woke up to an empty bed, the sickly-sweet scent of her perfume still hanging in the air. His cash? Gone. Every last dollar.
That was the night heroin found him.
It started slow—just a little to take the edge off. Then the edge got sharper, the nights got colder, and soon the needle became his only friend. His veins collapsed. His foot rotted. The streets swallowed him whole.
His wife tried to love him through it, but she ended up behind bars, chasing her own ghosts. She never made it out. His kids stopped answering calls before he even had a chance to beg for forgiveness.
Now, it was just him and the alley.
He scratched his arm. Prayer was an itch of faith, one he never knew how to scratch. But now? Now, he itched all the time.
He pulled a weathered Bible from the pocket of his ragged coat, the cover torn, pages stained with nicotine and sweat. He flipped through until he landed on Luke 15:24—"For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found."
A dry laugh caught in his throat. Lost souls. That was all he ever hustled. But Jesus? He hustled everything back.
He lifted the cigarette to his lips, took one last drag, and exhaled.
The smoke curled into the night sky like a silent prayer.
And with it, for the first time in his wasted life, Lefty let go.
