Homeless Youth Stories Novels & Stories

"I don't know, but I've been doing it for as long as I can remember. I don't remember what my parents look like." Well, that was kind of the standard answer for homeless youth. Most of New York's homeless youth were either kicked out of their homes by their parents after they became adults, or they never met their parents at all, and they spent most of their lives on the streets, probably dying at some point. New York looked glorious from the camera. It was the best city in the world, the place that people all over the world aspired to. However, in the real world, the dark corners here were far more cruel and cold-blooded than imaginable.

I cried out as one of the scavengers made to open it. They all looked hungry and dirty, definitely street kids, it was now it actually dawned on me where I was. THE NARROWS... I've heard a lot about this place on the news, it's like a refugee camp for homeless kids or orphans, because the social services in this town couldn't care less about the well fare of homeless kids. But I also heard one time that their territory had some degree of protection, but the juveniles usually get arrested a lot. "Hey have you guys seen this?, I took it off an old man's cart down the road." Some boy in a torn hoodie came around the corner with a newspaper in his hand.

When I'm calm enough i decided to share my story with the guys. "When was eight my mum died. I never knew my dad he left us before i was born. After my mum died i moved in with my aunt and uncle. She was mum sister and they were always close. They didn't have any kids so i always thought they consider me as theirs. I had my own room that i decorated with sketchs made by me, i went to school and had friends. I always acted like a good girl and did what they asked me to , i took care of myself most of the time. I didn't want to be a burden on them. When i was fifteen, my aunt found out she was pregnant. I was happy for her she always wanted kids. But they didn't want me to be there when they w

Little by little, I learned to earn much more than what we used to collect from begging. There are some young beggars and some younger than me that I rely on and support every day. They are the children who have been neglected by their parents or are unable to run away from their abusive parents. I took them in and let them stay in my small house that was patched together with iron, so that someone could live and be sheltered. It almost feels like my heart beats every time I look at their innocent faces, especially when I hear about their bitter experiences on the street, with other people or with their own family members who were mistreated and even raped.

There's a women's shelter that I saw in town during a drive with my father and I tell him to drive me there. I am officially homeless. I had to leave the shelter. Half of the money my grandparents gave me was stolen and nothing was done about it. The clothes I got from the donation box for my baby was also stolen and nothing was done about it. The last straw was finding out one of the women there was secretly cutting his hair while I slept.

A town full of homophobic people, and people who looked down on you because you were homeless. “It's amazing how you can look at the bright side of things when life has dealt you lemons. How long were you out there? I don't mean just under that tree. How long have you been homeless?” Walker asked, sitting back and combing his fingers through his long, wavy hair, brushing it back out of his face. The waves fell against his shoulders, and the sun caught the caramel strands, highlighting them. “Since I was 17. My father kicked me out just after my 17th birthday when he discovered I was still gay.

Camila sobs while she called her brother name until she drifted off to a deep sleep. Camila area breed of allot of children who can't be trained to school, some homeless without parents. Well only because it is a poverty stricken commune. Allot of homeless and displaced children and adults both old and young, filed every corner of the streets. Each gave raise to crimes such as theft, illegal drug and human trafficking, sex slavery and many more. It was a bad inhabitant for Camila and her brother but they had kept their head low and survived. The little money they made from selling newspaper in the street, roadside and offices had manage to provide food at their table. Father brought no money

“Well, pretty much the same as you, really. There was trouble at home; my dad died and my mum’s boyfriend abused me. So I started living on the streets. It was tough and I was just a kid. I could have died out there but Mr Manzini took me in, cleaned me up and gave me a job. And now, here I am.” “You mean Angelo took you right off the street? What do you mean he cleaned you up?” Moira was wide eyed and had stopped what she was doing. “I was an addict, unfortunately. It’s the street life; but maybe someone like you would never know much about that kind of life. It’s pretty rough. Mr. Manzini saved my life… and those of… I mean, he saved my life.” Skinner’s eyes were getting teary as he narrat

Just to organize his thoughts before standing in front of a room full of people and talking about a childhood he had spent decades moving away from. He wrote about the fire that killed his mother when he was nine. About the first group home, which was overcrowded and loud and smelled like institutional cleaning product and nothing else. About the social worker who had been kind to him for eight months before her caseload shifted and he was reassigned to someone who did not remember his name correctly for the first six weeks. About aging out of the system at eighteen with a garbage bag of belongings and nowhere to go. He wrote about the years after that with the same honesty. The things he ha

I'd believed him for almost two years, let his cruelty reshape how I saw myself until one night when I was sixteen I'd packed a backpack and walked out. Living rough had been terrifying and dangerous in ways I still didn't like to examine too closely. Three months sleeping in parks and abandoned buildings, showering at community centers, stealing food when I was desperate enough. Mr. Chen had found me trying to shoplift art supplies from his store and instead of calling the police he'd taken me to his apartment above the shop and fed me. "You have talent," he'd said looking at sketches in my backpack. "Talent shouldn't go to waste because of bad circumstances."