Ficly

Reducto ad canis

The icy wind swirled around his ankles and still he remained motionless. The leaves danced spirals in the dying light, a splash of colour against the grey decaying concrete background and still he remained poised for action. A filthy loincloth his only protection from the elements, fingertips blue from a combination of the frozen air and his unceasing grip on the knife he had nearly died to acquire and still he remained on, but never crossing, the cusp of flight.

A rat rummaged through the pile of trash tossed carelessly into the alleyway where he hid, waiting. Long years of insufficient food had honed his body to the bare minimum of musculature necessary to catch his next meal, and defend it long enough to eat it; but even he would not abase himself by killing this rat, this fellow scavenger of the dead city.

His eyes patiently scanned the horizon, when suddenly, a dog barked in the distance. “At last,” he thought as his legs sprang into action, his arm raising the knife ready to strike.

“Lunch!”

View this story's 2 comments.