This is. . . City is darkness, electric lit; glistening wet streets reflect flickering neon, between the grit and shadows. Half-bent, half-buckled, rain-coated figures hide themselves from the wind; protected behind their coats and pulled-down hoods. Swarms of plastic packets and other bits of wind-battered debris accost them lightly. It seems to be a cloudless night, yet there are no stars. Lively guts of red spray-paint - splashed passion on bleak walls. Rusted iron buildings, haunted by smashed glass, chipped paint. Architecture coated with layers of grime-thick oil stains, from the exhausts of voluminous motor-herds; which at this late hour seem mostly sheltered in their quiet lairs. A pair of boots grind their way over the tarmac. Hands are thrust stiffly in the pockets of a tall coat; but his head is upright and steadfast, confronting the wind. In all directions hair protrudes blonde with long unbending spikes; menacing like the thorns on a cactus. Sallow skin - and the look in his luminescent ocean eyes focus intently forward, yet strangely unbalanced in a fixed stare. Chains on leather pants are in rhythm with his stride. A yellow police van crawls up the side of the road, its occupants scanning the pavements for a likely suspect. Zero Tolerance Crime Prevention. Nail the small offenders - drunks, whores, pushers, users, beggars, punks. Then the murders and mugging and rape will decrease. Well, that''s the theory anyway. The van comes slowly to a halt, next to an unmoving body lying face down in the dirt. One of the cops gets out and walks over to it. He prods it with his truncheon, and it stirs with a low groan. The face that looks up to his, has a bloodied eye - which startles suddenly, and is awake at the sight of a Yellow Uniform. She kicks and screams, and pushing him aside, runs lopsidedly on one shoe, black and brown down the street. The cop gathers himself, and grinning at the challenge, takes off after her. The engine revs to action, and she is pursued by both of them now. The van cuts off her run at the next corner, crashing into trash cans, and as she slows undecided on her next move, is then crash-tackled from behind by the full force of a flying full-back. A bottle of wine is flung from the collision, spinning through the air at the force of the impact, and shatters as it hits the ground; the scarlet liquid of its contents spilling darkly onto the hard tar. Amidst the crash of glass and the dull crunch of the tackle, they hit the road together, and her breath is expelled with an anguished moan as her meagre form is crushed beneath him. Tell me what you all think about it, good for a story? If you are nowhere are you somewhere?

Could we call it 'Antichrist'?

//edit. wow. beat to it. by a whole day. i sure missed that the first read...

[edited by - Avatar God on February 25, 2004 12:58:40 AM]

Good start.

ok here's the next part
Paul's stride does not falter as he observes the scene from the other side of the street. He turns off at the next corner, not looking back.

With the thirsty taste of salt in his mouth, he merely looks down at his pacing boots, trying not to feel.

Rage.

He hears screaming and wailing, but he does not know if it comes from the street behind him, or ahead of him, or if it is just in his own mind. Instead of looking back, he increases his pace. And runs. And runs. . .

A few blocks later his running slows, and with breath heaving, he rounds a corner to the comforting thump of grunge music. The sound pulses together with the flickering coloured lights of a night-club. Outside, a few dozen night-crawlers mingle with the shadows and the streetlights, sucking cigarettes, joints, each other's faces, or a hidden something.

Laughing, farting, looking for a flirt. No-one pays him a second glance as Paul walks through the doorway and climbs the long narrow steps up to the entrance. A large bald bouncer selectively ignores his arrival, so he pays his cover-charge to an anorexic girl who looks up half-shaven, with red-mop-hair, and nose ring.

He hands over the full price even though it is late and the club will close soon. She smiles at him lopsidedly from behind a row of thick iron bars; her face taught, and haughty.

He is stamped with approval from the bouncer, and leaves his coat at the door; his feet and legs feeling the discordant pull of music. The club is mostly full. The dance-floor is mostly empty. His adrenaline is already pumping, so he skips past the jam at the bar; and feeling a little self-conscious at first, slows down, and finally lets emotion fill his body. Swinging from foot to foot in ever widening arcs, he then spins and lets his head loose.


[edited by - michaelp3000 on March 2, 2004 9:09:43 PM]