by Luke Otley
He lived in a grey cluster of houses funded by taxpayers.
The sun seemed embarrassed to show its face, but it did that afternoon. It bore down angrily on the overweight single mothers that paraded down the street cursing their poor filthy kids in a crass, thickly accented tongue. Bottles of home-brand vodka clinked noisily in time to their gait, a shameless mantra. The bottles chimed musically and the kids cried and screamed, an orchestra of anguish… URCHINS! Born into misery and filled with an unfathomable internal rage that they cannot and will not ever understand. On a deep, visceral level the product of a hundred thousand years of human evolution let forth a guttural, choking sob. The clouds slunk across the sky like stage villains and it was dark once more.