Above link is to a guest post on the Transmundane Press blog. Check it out.
Roy looks down the graying street, unable now to look away. His blood feels heavy and slow compared to the crisp air moving about his face and lungs. 32 meters away, his ear picks up the beginning of the caw of a crow, a sound so irritating to Roy that he would normally have stuck his fingers in his ears to damn the vibrations from the black beak of that filth-winged devil.
However, his arms hadn’t worked since they fell off and rolled down the streets as if they were long bags of nothing, frolicking about in the errant breeze. One was stuck in the sewer grate in which he pissed the other night, stumbling home drunk, full of sloshing brains and weak morals. Roy didn’t like to think of himself like that, not now, not at the end of his time on the planet. He liked to think of happy things, like the fact that the neighbor lady was using his other arm to scratch her ass and finger herself with. That must feel nice. His fingers were nice and clean today.
It was everything else that was dripping with dirt and blood.