White-hot
Posted: Sun Feb 05, 2006 9:52 pm
I got a tad bit bored with my boyfriend being off in Sweden right now, so I thought I'd start filling another section full of my trash. And here is a nice incomplete opening of the story, so, enjoy boppers, enjoy.
------
His hand dragged against his forehead in a careless fashion, beads of sweat flicked from the slow swipe.
In other words, it was too hot.
With the arrival of the evening he had set out on his way, but now, like many of his decisions, he severely regretted it. A dull throbbing headache had set in and he could feel his thin shirt sticking to his skin as if he was smeared in super-glue. Added to that, he was devoid of any drink or possible refreshment - and he wasn?t the begging kind. It was his problem and he was the guy that had to solve it.
In his heat fuelled exhaustion, he slumped onto a nearby set of steps; wincing as his elbow scuffed against an unseen corner. Blood etched it?s way across his arm ever so slightly, even so, he smeared it quickly across his pants. He then half-heartedly lifted his arm, glancing at his watch; It was past nine, yet he had felt like he?d been walking for hours. Heat-waves do that. They make time drag and in their presence everything moves slowly.
Making the decision not to move till a fat lady sung, he pulled out a rolled newspaper from his pocket and unfurled it lazily. In his stomach he felt another pang of regret as he realised that he could of bought a drink down at the store when he purchased the paper. It was too late and he couldn?t do anything about it, so he returned to the news with little hesitation.
And a frown took to his face.
Flicking the pages from back to front, the frown only became more prominent; he obviously didn?t like what he was reading and from the severity of his movement, it became apparent that something was wrong. A sound, merely a whisper, escaped from his lips as he mouthed the words that were written boldly throughout the paper. Shadowed eyes darted across the street and he rose his arm again, this time to nervously scratch at his dark skin before he began to stare at both paper and watch.
He swore angrily. Anger directed at himself and the oppressive climate. Heat-waves make your mind weary, they take off your edge. In a major lapse of judgement, brought about by a throbbing head and a change in patterns, he had forgotten the directions given to keep him from being the next name in the vast lists that lay in the paper. With little consideration, he shot up, ignoring the wall of fire trying to keep him sitting.
There were few rules to follow for a man such as himself. Simple respectable rules and suggestions that kept him alive and well. One of which was so simple in it?s simplicity, that he felt like backhanding himself for forgetting it. Get off the streets and behind closed doors before the curfew. Simple? Obviously.
The paper slid from his fingers and onto the steps gingerly, were he more aware he would have checked where he was - due to all of his wandering, he was uncomfortably lost - but instead he decided to run. Spinning on his heels he belted down the street, his all-stars sticking to the floor with each step as if covered in chewing gum. He had no idea where to run, he just knew he had to find somewhere to disappear to and fast, least he come across one of the fabled gangs mentioned oh-so frequently by the media.
Swerving round a corner awkwardly, he stumbled a few steps before he tripped straight over the curb, with his feet twisting and arms flailing before he came to a halt. The sidewalk had broken his fall - and had seemingly taken half of his cheek with it. In return he had taken fragments of stone and glass which were happily imbedded into his face. He put his hand to his stinging cheek and struggled to rise, pain shooting through his now twisted ankle.
Maybe he was just being stupid, falling for media lies, he had seen no real proof of gang warfare, so why should he be killing him self trying to get home when he could easily walk?
It then became clear. Any clearer, and it would be smacking him in his Puerto Rican face. A burner lay before him, an entire wall taken up by it?s wide array of colours and stylish swerves. He didn?t need it spelt out to him. This was a gangs? burner, and it wasn?t fresh. It had an air about it which was shouting at him to try and take it down, a taunt. It was a simple sign showing who ran the area and that those that ran it, had run it without question for a long while.
He had charged right into a gang?s territory and got himself injured in the process. He stood up unsteadily. There was nothing to it, he had to keep going. He definatly couldn?t remain rooted there for somone to find him.
And that was when he heard it. A soft, rolling voice, gently bouncing and purring.
  ?... And the Van Courtland rangers decided to teach those Boppers a thing or two about dancing in a disco so far from home. Speakin? of Boppers, the Baseball Furies have just bopped their way through the major league in an interesting turn of events. Those Punks ain?t gonna be throwing the ball quite so hard over the next few weeks, babies...?
His heart began to drum within his ribcage and he stood, frozen to the ground as the voice approached and with it, the thud of footfalls of more than one cat. Unsure of his options, he glanced down the alley where the burner stood proudly, and without so much as a blink, he limped down it, setting himself behind a dumpster. And there he remained in utter silence. He inhaled deeply as to try to control his breathing and stretched his fingers out, grasping for a comfort.
He found it in the form of a bottle and glaring down, he noticed several, some broken, some intact - though all empty. It was close now. Very close, ? ... and that?s all for now babies, but I?ll keep you listed. Until then, let this sweet music soothe your soul in dedication to those Jones Street boys who are having such a tough few nights. Stay tuned boppers, stay tuned.? Music filled the street, and his mouth went dry, fear sweeping over him.
------
Cheers for reading, I'll update sometime soon. <3
------
His hand dragged against his forehead in a careless fashion, beads of sweat flicked from the slow swipe.
In other words, it was too hot.
With the arrival of the evening he had set out on his way, but now, like many of his decisions, he severely regretted it. A dull throbbing headache had set in and he could feel his thin shirt sticking to his skin as if he was smeared in super-glue. Added to that, he was devoid of any drink or possible refreshment - and he wasn?t the begging kind. It was his problem and he was the guy that had to solve it.
In his heat fuelled exhaustion, he slumped onto a nearby set of steps; wincing as his elbow scuffed against an unseen corner. Blood etched it?s way across his arm ever so slightly, even so, he smeared it quickly across his pants. He then half-heartedly lifted his arm, glancing at his watch; It was past nine, yet he had felt like he?d been walking for hours. Heat-waves do that. They make time drag and in their presence everything moves slowly.
Making the decision not to move till a fat lady sung, he pulled out a rolled newspaper from his pocket and unfurled it lazily. In his stomach he felt another pang of regret as he realised that he could of bought a drink down at the store when he purchased the paper. It was too late and he couldn?t do anything about it, so he returned to the news with little hesitation.
And a frown took to his face.
Flicking the pages from back to front, the frown only became more prominent; he obviously didn?t like what he was reading and from the severity of his movement, it became apparent that something was wrong. A sound, merely a whisper, escaped from his lips as he mouthed the words that were written boldly throughout the paper. Shadowed eyes darted across the street and he rose his arm again, this time to nervously scratch at his dark skin before he began to stare at both paper and watch.
He swore angrily. Anger directed at himself and the oppressive climate. Heat-waves make your mind weary, they take off your edge. In a major lapse of judgement, brought about by a throbbing head and a change in patterns, he had forgotten the directions given to keep him from being the next name in the vast lists that lay in the paper. With little consideration, he shot up, ignoring the wall of fire trying to keep him sitting.
There were few rules to follow for a man such as himself. Simple respectable rules and suggestions that kept him alive and well. One of which was so simple in it?s simplicity, that he felt like backhanding himself for forgetting it. Get off the streets and behind closed doors before the curfew. Simple? Obviously.
The paper slid from his fingers and onto the steps gingerly, were he more aware he would have checked where he was - due to all of his wandering, he was uncomfortably lost - but instead he decided to run. Spinning on his heels he belted down the street, his all-stars sticking to the floor with each step as if covered in chewing gum. He had no idea where to run, he just knew he had to find somewhere to disappear to and fast, least he come across one of the fabled gangs mentioned oh-so frequently by the media.
Swerving round a corner awkwardly, he stumbled a few steps before he tripped straight over the curb, with his feet twisting and arms flailing before he came to a halt. The sidewalk had broken his fall - and had seemingly taken half of his cheek with it. In return he had taken fragments of stone and glass which were happily imbedded into his face. He put his hand to his stinging cheek and struggled to rise, pain shooting through his now twisted ankle.
Maybe he was just being stupid, falling for media lies, he had seen no real proof of gang warfare, so why should he be killing him self trying to get home when he could easily walk?
It then became clear. Any clearer, and it would be smacking him in his Puerto Rican face. A burner lay before him, an entire wall taken up by it?s wide array of colours and stylish swerves. He didn?t need it spelt out to him. This was a gangs? burner, and it wasn?t fresh. It had an air about it which was shouting at him to try and take it down, a taunt. It was a simple sign showing who ran the area and that those that ran it, had run it without question for a long while.
He had charged right into a gang?s territory and got himself injured in the process. He stood up unsteadily. There was nothing to it, he had to keep going. He definatly couldn?t remain rooted there for somone to find him.
And that was when he heard it. A soft, rolling voice, gently bouncing and purring.
  ?... And the Van Courtland rangers decided to teach those Boppers a thing or two about dancing in a disco so far from home. Speakin? of Boppers, the Baseball Furies have just bopped their way through the major league in an interesting turn of events. Those Punks ain?t gonna be throwing the ball quite so hard over the next few weeks, babies...?
His heart began to drum within his ribcage and he stood, frozen to the ground as the voice approached and with it, the thud of footfalls of more than one cat. Unsure of his options, he glanced down the alley where the burner stood proudly, and without so much as a blink, he limped down it, setting himself behind a dumpster. And there he remained in utter silence. He inhaled deeply as to try to control his breathing and stretched his fingers out, grasping for a comfort.
He found it in the form of a bottle and glaring down, he noticed several, some broken, some intact - though all empty. It was close now. Very close, ? ... and that?s all for now babies, but I?ll keep you listed. Until then, let this sweet music soothe your soul in dedication to those Jones Street boys who are having such a tough few nights. Stay tuned boppers, stay tuned.? Music filled the street, and his mouth went dry, fear sweeping over him.
------
Cheers for reading, I'll update sometime soon. <3