Crusty Concrete.

Bill wandered down the street, the pouring rain soaking him through. His trainers squelching as the droplets raced to finish their pilgrimage, if only because nothing in the shoes (including the giant 2-year old verucca that was semi-sentient.) could scare them more than what they saw while passing the grimy slums that were Bill's boxers. A dog howled in the distance, making the scene eerily climatic - well as climatic as a street in south Doncaster could possibly dream of being - as smoke danced across the roof tops (either burning leaves or bodies - the latter was probably the most likely.) and the stars flashed their cameras whilst the moon stood off in the distance, hunching it's shoulders against a cold that Bill couldn't even imagine. A thought crossed the moon's unbelievably ancient mind; 'how ungrateful the Beings were, with their street lamps and torches, as unappreciative now as they werre in their infancy'. The moon promptly resolved to wrap up in the clouds and take the night off, wandering over to Mercury to get pissed on Sunshine.
The moonlight promptly went out on Bill, causing him to trip and fall towards the unforgiving concrete.





And the concrete thought to itself; 'Bugger, now the street cleaners are going to come back.'

Copyright;
Slizzer348
a.k.a. Wess Lei Jardaim.