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The Sad Life and Ironic Death of Horace Hutchinson

by Jonathan Hill
Originally published by on 13/07/2014

Horace Hutchinson could forgive most people for most things but he could not excuse litterers. Each day, he paced up and down the main road near his house, litter picker in hand. By the end of his self-commissioned work, an income-free job no partner would abide, litter was already accumulating for his next shift.

On his last day, he slipped on a used condom, the wasted seed of life, and fell into the path of a lorry. Copper coins pebbled the tarmac, receipts and loose papers fluttered free from his pockets and a sticky red substance stained his resting place.

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