garrattj

Five-minute fiction - 23:58-00:03

The force of the knocking shook the door sending particles of dust and other unmentionable things into the air. They hung their, wafting gently in the beam of light that lanced through the splayed curtains, as motes of dust are apt to do in such situations. The knocking came again, this time part of the door splintered under the force. Grim lay prostrate half on the bed, half on the floor. Last nights sleep had not been the most comfortable, but it had suited him fine, the beer had suited him as well. Though not on the return trip. He raised his head and looked, blearily, at the door. Another series of knocks, three to be precise now that Grim could articulate that someone was, indeed, knocking, and Grim hauled himself to his feet.

The floor was littered with the refuse of an evening in City. Bottles, buckets, a road sign, and a number of bundles of greasy newspapers, which had had until the only hours before sunrise had held slabs of fish battered and fried in oil, lay scattered around the room.