Fiction runs through my brain like rats through sewers

Here is a small something that came to me quite unbidden. Perhaps too much Poe and Orwell in my literary diet lately.

The pocked marked streets were cold and slightly damp in the early morning light. The deafening blasts largely went unnoticed by the man in the grey ¾ length wool coat. He knew that people were screaming but he was feeling light headed having a hard time paying attention to them. It was most certainly something rather trivial he was certain. He leaned against a lamp post trying to catch his breath. His walk into the city had been predictably precarious. He didn’t expect that he’d actually find food or work but couldn’t resign himself to sitting idly. He felt so tired despite having gotten a full night’s sleep. He never slept well these days.

He was trying to enjoy his brief respite at the long defunct light provider. He considered how long it would last. He was warm, almost comfortable. The smell reminded him of working in a kitchen and preparing the large baron’s of beef. He smiled wanly, reminiscing. He forced himself to look down at his hands and his entrails being held in them.