Boris Doyle Writer, the wild thoughts of a man.

  Sarah scrounged, seeking to find aluminium cans on the street. She could have some money if she found enough. Sometimes, people only ate some of their takeaway food, and Sarah got to eat. If she wasn't too fussy, she could deal with the stomach aches if it were too stale. Alcohol costs money, which is what collected aluminium cans were suitable for. She went down to the water's edge, where teenagers had parties. Sometimes, she would find a tin of beer half-drunk.   There was a noisy gang there. She had trouble with them before and avoided them when she could. Screamed her head off if she couldn't get away from them and hoped a cop would be close enough to help her. She skirted away, hoping they wouldn't notice her being too close. She had to be careful, so she wouldn't get caught. They left old Scraggy a scar on his face because he was too close.   Hunger was a pain she was used to. She brought the cans she had to the scrapyard. She needed what that greedy, nefari...

Three gentle knocks on the door alerted Dr Thomilson. He had only sat down for the first time this evening to watch a program he'd been waiting in anticipation of. A debate between two politicians, one he hated and one he admired. He had turned off the doorbell so there'd be no interruption. Three more knocks on his door. Dr. Thomilson rose abruptly from his chair to answer the door. His family had left ten minutes before to visit the circus with tickets they'd unexpectedly won. Gaudish-coloured costumed people hanging from ropes throwing themselves to catch swings or others on swings, men pouring whitewash down each other's trousers, tossing multiple balls in the air, and forcing animals to do tricks, throwing knives at each other. Thomilson shuddered at the thought. He was glad he had a good excuse not to buy a ticket, in that they were completely sold out. "Probably want me to give them more spending money," went through his head as he headed to the front d...