Writing Exercise: City Life

[mrs_mackenzie]

The hydraulic hiss of the train door mechanism made me look up, followed by the low roar of the doors closing. I looked up and I saw him, and it was love at first sight.

The Drain was packed at this time on a Monday morning; all the stockbrokers and City workers were on their way in from Surrey and I was on the periphery, squeezed into a corner, my suitcase wedged between my feet. He was standing closest to the door, his arm wrapped around the rail, absorbed in a book. I couldn’t see the title, but I knew it would be something lightly intellectual, the kind of thing he’d casually bring up in bed as we caught our breath and pillow-talked, talking in a low voice while I gently played with his soft cock. Then he’d grunt with desire and we’d begin round two.

In his other hand was his briefcase, black, unremarkable. What was in it? Would his wife have put in a slim packet of sandwiches for him to eat as he stood astride the world’s financial markets, or would he go out for lunch, slipping out to meet me at a little tucked away Greek place? Only he seemed to know about it: he’d greet the owner in an understated way and then order for me, knowing what the best items on the menu were instinctively. Then perhaps we’d find an alley on the way back and I’d stand on his briefcase while he gripped me tightly from behind and fucked me, my skirt hiked up, his hand over my mouth to hold in my screams…

I bit my lip and he turned the page. He was really good-looking, with sandy hair and blue eyes, a smiling mouth and a studious expression. Perhaps he had a big presentation with the investment committee this morning and he was reading to keep his mind off it. The presentation would go well, I was sure of it. To celebrate, I’d wait for him in his office, on my knees, ready to immediately slide his gorgeous cock out of his pants and lick once, base to tip, slowly and tortuously, my eyes fixed on his, not wavering for a moment until he had to moan, his body filling with lust for me as I placed a firm, full kiss directly onto the tip…

“The next station is Bank,” the electronic woman’s voice said, the train braking. The man closed his book and glanced in my direction. I smiled politely, and he did too. Then the train drew to a stop, the Drain began to empty and I watched him go, book in one hand, briefcase in the other, knowing I wouldn’t see him again.

 

[TarnishedPenny]

There's a time, at around mid-afternoon in late Autumn. There's not a name for it, but all the locals know it. At the end of what we'd call a "bright" day, the sun dips towards the west and casts its dying copper rays onto the slow-moving surface of Thames.

And for a moment - just a moment - Faerie returns and London becomes its golden-walled, deep-shadowed Fae twin.

I can sit here and smell that moment!

 

[UsuallyPresent]

The rain drizzled out of the darkness far overhead, night over clouds over buildings over sprawl over mess over the forgotten. His pace unhindered by the lack of visibility, he stepped over Shaunnessy's water and ducked Juval's power, twisting through the gap mostly filled by the coolant pump. Two more steps, reaching left he found the ladder and clambered a dozen feet up before bridging the gap and stepping on someone else's drain. Drains were usually sturdy enough, even for him.

Several more steps and gyrations later, he reached the wall and rapped his pattern on it. It popped, at least enough to let him through, and he stepped in. The wall dropped back in place behind him with a muted thud before the wall before him opened, letting a little precious light out.

In he went, stripping off the shoulder bag before peeling the coat and slicker-pants away. Grabbing the bag again, his shoes were kicked off into the corner and he entered the main room.

Everyone was there, and he smiled. Reaching into the bag, he pulled out the handful of candles. "Happy Birthday, sweetie!" he cheered. The crowd aww'd and his daughter smiled bashfully even as she blushed.

It was a good day.

 

[Bazzle]

It was hot, far too hot. The city heat island effect was happening, almost as it was on steroids.

The moment of stepping from the air conditioned office as if jumping into the oven. Each step is hard work. Like the plastic on the soles of the shoes were melting on contact with the pavement.

Each movement of my limbs was as if swaying in treacle as the air in my lungs was a like swallowing hot coffee.

It was five o'clock and I was meeting my friend in the park, a well deserved ice cream before hitting the steamy situation of the tube home. Looking forward to squishing my nose up some fat hairy man's armpit as we fall into each other as the train sways and shudders.

I can smell my own sweat as well as feel it flows down my back.

I dream of being on the coast and swimming in a sea, not creating it between my legs just walking to the small patch of grass near my office.

I won't raise my arm and wave to my friend as my armpits are not for show. I am definitely not going to hug.

We smile, kiss a salty touch on the lips, then join the what is a mile long queue for an over priced sweet salvation.

The sky is blue, busses red and taxis black. I wouldn't be anywhere else. The ice cream is delicious. Just as my friend is.

 

[onehitwanda]

I can sit here and smell that moment!

When you know, you know.

 

[StillStunned]

It has snowed overnight, and now the fog had settled in. I opened my curtains and looked out to see a world of white, above and below. The red roofs I was used to seeing, the dark trees of the park, the brown cobblestones that paved the streets – all were gone.

After a while my eyes started to pick out details. Thick white blankets, a little lighter than the thick air, covered the houses and everything in between. A yellow glow here and there, like a dog’s piss in a snowbank, lit up a neighbour’s window.

And over it all, through it all, was a silence. A heavy, ominous silence, as if the entire town was being suffocated in a down pillow and not even struggling. No voices. No barking dogs or chattering birds. No cars, no church bells, no music. None of the thousand sounds that breathe life into every town and village around the country.

Nothing.

Nothing to see, nothing to hear.

I turned my back on the window to face the bed. The woman still lay there, almost as still as the world outside. Her black hair contrasted with the white pillows and blankets.

She spoke, and I realised she must have been watching me. “What time is it?”

“A little after seven.” I’d only paid her for the night. Could only afford the night. Still, I wasn’t going to kick her into the void that waited out there. I wasn’t sure whether it was for her sake or for my own.

She raised her head to look past me. The blankets slipped down, revealing skin as white as the world outside, broken by two dark red nipples. I remembered her warmth, and my heart yearned to feel it again.

It gave a lurch as she rose, as naked as she’d been after we finished, and stepped towards me. Her eyes darted down, to where my cock had lurched in time with my heart.

She stopped beside me, still facing the window while I faced the bed, our shoulders just touching. Her hand came up to rest on my chest. “Make me breakfast,” she murmured, “and I’ll pretend you paid me for the whole day.”

 

[PapaRomantic]

It was on this corner that my life was changed forever.

It was on this corner that a young man fresh from the country made his first arrival in the big city. The world moved so fast in 1955. The country was in the midst of an unprecedented economic boom, and I had come to the city to find my fortune.

It was on this corner that I looked up to see the ridiculous height of the booming skyscrapers towering over me, with each new building promising to be higher than the last.

It was on this corner that the new-fangled automobiles raced by, in their gaudy colors that made the traditional black car or truck seem dull and boring.

It was on this corner that an endless stream of city residents hustled and bustled to go to work or to shop or to socialize or anywhere else.

It was on this corner that the phrase “love at first sight” became my reality.

It was on this corner that we bumped into each other, and she dropped what she was carrying.

It was on this corner that chivalry was the order of the day and I bent to pick up what she dropped.

It was on this corner that we discovered each other, learned about each other.

It was on this corner, in the midst of the tall buildings and the bustle of city life, that we fell deeply in love with each other. It was a love that lasted 65 years, surviving anything the world could throw at us.



It was on this corner….




It was on this corner that I returned, on the date we called “corner day…..”

It was on this corner that I came back after we laid my sweet Edith to rest.

It was on this corner that the city still bustled, and the buildings still loomed high overhead.

But it’s different…there is no joy on this corner anymore.

It’s on this corner that my tears now run.

It’s on this corner that my heart breaks once again…I miss you, my sweet Edith…

 

[PennyThompson]

It was on this corner that my life was changed forever.

It was on this corner that a young man fresh from the country made his first arrival in the big city. The world moved so fast in 1955. The country was in the midst of an unprecedented economic boom, and I had come to the city to find my fortune.

It was on this corner that I looked up to see the ridiculous height of the booming skyscrapers towering over me, with each new building promising to be higher than the last.

It was on this corner that the new-fangled automobiles raced by, in their gaudy colors that made the traditional black car or truck seem dull and boring.

It was on this corner that an endless stream of city residents hustled and bustled to go to work or to shop or to socialize or anywhere else.

It was on this corner that the phrase “love at first sight” became my reality.

It was on this corner that we bumped into each other, and she dropped what she was carrying.

It was on this corner that chivalry was the order of the day and I bent to pick up what she dropped.

It was on this corner that we discovered each other, learned about each other.

It was on this corner, in the midst of the tall buildings and the bustle of city life, that we fell deeply in love with each other. It was a love that lasted 65 years, surviving anything the world could throw at us.



It was on this corner….




It was on this corner that I returned, on the date we called “corner day…..”

It was on this corner that I came back after we laid my sweet Edith to rest.

It was on this corner that the city still bustled, and the buildings still loomed high overhead.

But it’s different…there is no joy on this corner anymore.

It’s on this corner that my tears now run.

It’s on this corner that my heart breaks once again…I miss you, my sweet Edith…

Why do you have to make me cry on the smut forum

 

[PapaRomantic]

Why do you have to make me cry on the smut forum

As I get older, memories become very precious. I didn't intend it to be sad, but it really wrote itself and I let it.

 

[StillStunned]

If he hadn’t been in a hurry he’d never have been in the alley. It was a shortcut. Unpleasant, uncomfortable, but it took minutes off the walk and he’d catch his train after all.

It was empty of life, but full of movement. Drainpipes spat out splashes still, even though the rain had stopped. The wind ruffled the water in the puddles, and kicked plastic containers and paper cartons around the bins around like a bored kid. The skin of an umbrella fluttered, a soul trying to wrench free from its skeleton.

He was halfway along when he saw the eyes. Large, dark, soulful. Below was a long, sandy snout that ended in a black nose. It opened as he approached, and a pink tongue appeared and gave a quick lick.

He halted and looked at the dog. Its fur was matted and coated in mud. When it saw him stop, it rose on shaky paws and its tail gave half a wag. The brown eyes seemed to flood with hope.

It had been sleeping on a rag that might once have been someone’s poncho. A souvenir from a trip to South America, perhaps. Now it was as faded and threadbare as the dog.

“Hello,” he said.

The dog wagged its tail again and stepped closer.

“I don’t have anything for you.”

The dog either didn’t believe him, or it didn’t care. It stopped before him and sat, head raised. Too polite to beg.

“Sorry, dog.” He turned and continued along his way.

After a moment he heard the clitter-clitter-splash of paws behind him, then the sandy shape darted past and sniffed at a bin. Then it returned to him, mouth open, tongue lolling. A quick circle around him, then it began to trot along beside him.

He sighed. “Go away, dog. I don’t have anything.”

Again, the dog ignored him. Loyalty made flesh, it kept up until they reached the main street at the end of the alley. There it halted, perhaps confused by the rush of feet and wheels, the sudden noise.

He took the opportunity and vanished into the crowd. He could still catch his train.

 

[gunhilltrain]

1954. New York City.

The sidewalk ran straight but the woman in front of me was all curves. Hips smooth and round, an ass that wiggles with a kick each step she takes. An exclamation point, every step. The secretaries on the street are all in dresses and skirts but she’s in slacks, finely milled brown wool that’s thin, thin enough to see right through if it came from a nylon machine and not a sheep.

She’s good on her high heels, confident in her gate, subtle shifts side-to-side to dodge dirty flesh-colored bits of chewing gum and a pigeon-pecked half a hotdog that someone dropped. Me, I wasn’t so lucky, picking up a sticky mass of chewing gum on my sole because my eyes couldn’t leave her ass. Shouldn’t. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. She’d gotten into my head, this one. This morning walk to work, this parade of men in suits and hats, this parking of cars at the curb, Studebakers, Chevrolets, an odd round one called a Volkswagon, all of it was a blur today because of this woman, this stunning sexual being I was following. I was lost in the dream of her. Her ass. My cock. The way they’d fit together.

I awoke in a hospital room three days later, my wife telling me I’d been hit by a car while walking to work. A few witnesses had told the police I’d looked as if I was in a trance as I crossed the street, those in front of me able to scurry away, myself and another man hit. He wasn’t hurt badly. I had a few days ahead of me in the hospital, days in which I began to remember, days in which I decided I’d do it again, for to follow such a woman is to understand what living is all about.

A good illustration to go along with this story. (Yeah, the link works.) 42nd Street looking east from between 8th (behind the photographer) and 7th. The Times Tower in the center still exists, but it's been rebuilt so many times that it is unrecognizable. I guess Manhattan had two Apollo Theaters.

https://scontent-lga3-3.xx.fbcdn.ne...NAUDc0JEM8Nq1v43_xTwUENkM7vnWca2Q&oe=67C28970

 

[StillStunned]

The day had been blindingly hot, and when night fell it just got worse. A hush blanketed everything, as if the whole the city was holding its breath. Or perhaps the air was just too stuffy to breathe.

The Council had issued instructions not to use anything more advanced that a mechanical fan to cool our homes. The grid would overheat, they said. Better a bit of discomfort, they said, than irreparable damage. They didn’t say what to do if you didn’t have a fan anymore.

So I sweated through the day, and gritted my teeth and prepared myself to sweat through a sleepless night. Made sure the sheets on the bed were cotton, with the thinnest silk duvet. Opened the curtains and windows as soon as the sun sulked below the horizon to catch the breeze. Put buckets of ice in the bedroom to lower the temperature.

None of this had any noticeable effect. The air everywhere in the house was like cotton wool, sticking to my skin and bereft of any oxygen. The fumes and sweat of the city seemed to have forced it all out.

But my attic had a window, I remembered, and the breeze was bound to be stronger up there. I could tempt it inside, down the stairs and into my bedroom. Optimistic, perhaps, but I was tired and desperate, and moments later I was up the stairs with my eyes closed and my head thrust between the gap in the curtains. Cool air – cool by comparison only – caressed my skin, as if mocking me. Is this what you wanted? This is all you’ll get…

I stood there for a moment, enjoying the relative freshness of the night air. The city was still subdued, willing itself to sleep. I heard a car somewhere in the distance, and a plane coming in for its landing. It was almost eerie.

I took a final deep breath and opened my eyes. My gaze was immediately drawn to a square of bright light perhaps twenty feet away ands slightly below me. My new neighbour’s house. Edie, she was called.

I was looking into her bedroom.

 

[birdy_]

Tension ripples through the tightly packed mass of commuters as we barrel along towards the next station. There's usually more of a 'keep calm and cary on' sort of spirit, but this is Monday morning and everyone is feeling it.

The usual verbal orchestration starts as our train starts to slow down. "Sorry." and "Excuse me." fill the air as people try to negotiate a path to position themselves near the door. No one alighting wants to get caught in the stampede of the impatient crowd waiting on the platform as they storm the carriage.

We come to a stop and the doors open.

"Please mind the gap!" The platform announcer squawks.

A smartly dressed middle aged man wedged between the sloping side of the carriage and a fellow commuter makes eye contact with me. "Like there's a gap anywhere between here and Watford." He mutters while grinning.

I smirk back, acknowledging his remark. He looks thoroughly pleased with his contribution to the current proceedings in an otherwise standard morning commute on the Underground.

After a somewhat clumsy transfer of passengers between train and platform, the doors close and we accelerate into the tunnel. There is a moment of relief as everyone takes stock of their ephemeral location before we all have to start mentally preparing for the next stop.

 

[PennyThompson]

Tension ripples through the tightly packed mass of commuters as we barrel along towards the next station. There's usually more of a 'keep calm and cary on' sort of spirit, but this is Monday morning and everyone is feeling it.

The usual verbal orchestration starts as our train starts to slow down. "Sorry." and "Excuse me." fill the air as people try to negotiate a path to position themselves near the door. No one alighting wants to get caught in the stampede of the impatient crowd waiting on the platform as they storm the carriage.

We come to a stop and the doors open.

"Please mind the gap!" The platform announcer squawks.

A smartly dressed middle aged man wedged between the sloping side of the carriage and a fellow commuter makes eye contact with me. "Like there's a gap anywhere between here and Watford." He mutters while grinning.

I smirk back, acknowledging his remark. He looks thoroughly pleased with his contribution to the current proceedings in an otherwise standard morning commute on the Underground.

After a somewhat clumsy transfer of passengers between train and platform, the doors close and we accelerate into the tunnel. There is a moment of relief as everyone takes stock of their ephemeral location before we all have to start mentally preparing for the next stop.

The usual rearrangement occurs at the next stop, as a significant portion of the current passengers make their way out of the car.

There's an unusually large mob of rowdy university students on the platform. They all begin pushing their way in, heedless of the car's maximum capacity.

Shit, the match is starting in about an hour, and the stadium is the last stop on this line.

I get caught up in the crush, my petite seven-stone frame bobbing through the crowd like a foam cup dropped in the Thames.

I end up pressed roughly into the crook of 'Mr. Watford's' arm, and I instinctively grab onto his waist to maintain my balance.

'Oof, terribly sorry, love...' He exclaims. He actually blushes as he adjusts his grip on the pole, trying to give me a more respectful space.

He smells of musk cologne and good tobacco. I don't hate it.

(apologies for my poor attempt at British written tone)

 

[birdy_]

The usual rearrangement occurs at the next stop, as a significant portion of the current passengers make their way out of the car.

There's an unusually large mob of rowdy university students on the platform. They all begin pushing their way in, heedless of the car's maximum capacity.

Shit, the match is starting in about an hour, and the stadium is the last stop on this line.

I get caught up in the crush, my petite seven-stone frame bobbing through the crowed like a foam cup caught in the Thames.

I end up pressed roughly into the crook of 'Mr. Watford's' arm, and I instinctively grab onto his waist to maintain my balance.

'Oof, terribly sorry, love...' He exclaims. He actually blushes as he adjusts his grip on the pole, trying to give me a more respectful space.

He smells of musk cologne and good tobacco. I don't hate it.

(apologies for my poor attempt at British written tone)

I think I speak on behalf of all eight and a half million Londoners when I welcome you as a "Local"

 

[StillStunned]

Old Sin-sin used to say that the bugs had originally been used to study people. So the City Board claimed, anyway. “Just act normal,” the message had been. “Don’t mind us.” At first it had been exciting, Sin-sin said. Not everyone had a bug. Those that didn’t were envious of those that did. And so the City had issued more. And more. And then everyone had a bug trailing along behind them.

Ello glanced over his shoulder. The dark red eye glowed in the gathering shadows, precisely three feet away. Always precisely three feet away. “Have you ever been this way before?” It felt strange, addressing the bug directly. Nearly two decades it had been part of his existence, and he’d always ignored it.

Everyone ignored their bugs. A few people tried to swat them away, or smash them, or outrun them, or hide from them. None of it ever worked. if someone managed to damage their bug, another would show up almost immediately. Or a truckload of City goons with glowsticks. Overall, ignoring your bug was the best policy.

Breaking the habit of a lifetime didn’t seem to have any immediate effect. The bug continued to hang there, red eye gleaming. After a moment Ello turned back and continued down the narrow street. The bug followed, the same as it always did. Its power unit was a constant hum at the edge of his hearing. Still, the idea that he was being watched, which usually annoyed him like a grain of sand in his eye, was now oddly reassuring. He could fool himself that he wasn’t alone, that someone was looking out for him.

That was nonsense, of course. The bugs weren’t there to protect people. Oh, perhaps for the wealthy up on Landlord Plateau, maybe for them the tiny surveillance drones were fitted with security features instead of spy gear, but the common people just had to live with the City Board watching them all the time. Watching, recording, and presumably analysing the footage. Not helping in any way.

And Ello could have used some help. He was far beyond the limits of his normal haunts, venturing out in search of the deal that would save his life. He tried briefly to convince himself that he was doing it for Tun-tunu, but he only had so much imagination, and he was using it all to tell himself the lie about his bug.

Dusk gathered around him as he made his way along the deserted street. Dusk, that temporal no-man’s-land when daytime people and nighttime people were all minding their own business. The streetlights – those that still worked, down here in the slums – hadn’t come on yet, and only the bare minimum of light sank down this far from the tall buildings that formed the sides of this urban canyon.

He pulled his coat tighter around him. Did the bug register this? Somewhere, was a line added to a file saying that Ello felt cold at a temperature of – a quick glance at the phone on his wrist – a temperature of 17 degrees, with barely any wind?

The gloom crept out of the corners and gathered around him. A neon light flickered into life at the end of the street, and Ello saw what he was looking for: an even narrower, even darker alley off to the side. A bowl of plastic flowers stood incongruously on a broken crate, as advertised. This was the place.

Taking a deep breath, Ello looked back the way he’d come. The bug was still hovering three feet away. Was there a look in that single red eye of curiosity? Anticipation? Reluctance?

It was foolish, Ello knew, but he couldn’t help himself. “Look,” he said, “it could be dangerous in there. I don’t know these people. They could decide to shiv me and take the file. You don’t have to come with me. It’ll be safer out here.”

Was that the faintest flicker in the eye? Did the bug have a sense of humour? Maybe it was whoever operated it, if it even had a human operator. Ello grinned. “If I don’t come out, tell–” He broke the sentence off. That was getting too real. He cleared his throat instead. “If you’re coming in, I’ll need you to have my back, alright?”

This time there was a definite flicker. Buoyed by the idea of not being alone, Ello turned and headed into the dark alley with a bounce in his step that hadn’t been there for a long time.

 

[StillStunned]

(That one got away from me. I wanted to shorten it, but there was nowhere to cut it off.)

 

[filthytrancendence]

The long, slender-looking hull of the Bakunin no longer fit within the colossal construction sphere of Tycho station. The bow jutted out into space like the spire of an old Earth skyscraper as a swarm of construction waldos hauled hull plating and bulkheads from the innumerable berths of the sphere to their permanent home on the skin of the nearly finished capital ship.

Harrah stood at a window overlooking the massive project in the office of the shift foreman. Well, she would be standing, if there were any gravity in the construction sphere. The habitation ring of the station spun placidly along the perimeter of the central sphere, generating a comfortable 1/3rd G of spin gravity. Much of the advantage of Tycho's unique design, however, was in allowing zero-G construction of capital ships or small stations while providing the comfort and utility of spin gravity to its quarter million denizens.

"A month?" Herrah said, trying to conceal her incredulity without much success.

"A month, bossmang."

The foreman, Tharin, looked to Harrah as if he would snap in half at a 2G burn; rail-thin with improbably long arms and legs like all of void-born humanity.

She turned to face the man, her eyebrow quirking upward and her hackles rising with it.

"You're aware my delegation has been burning like hell for the commissioning ceremony that was scheduled in 4 days?"

"Maybe," he paused, made the long, exaggerated belter shrug she had come to hate, "tell them to slow down, sa sa?"

She ground her teeth. She knew that berating the man was only likely to cause more mysterious delays. She could hear Drik's voice in her head telling her to get a grip. She wasn't an engineer, and there wasn't anything she could say to make the situation better. Only worse.

"Okay," she signed, pushing off the window frame toward the door, "I'll tell them so slow down."

Tharin said nothing as she floated into the corridor and toward the lift. She was quite sure that he was as happy to have her out of his office as she was to leave. She drifted into the lift and entered the command to take her into the habitation ring.

The lift jolted into action, pushing her feet against the floor for the first time in hours. She sighed in relief at the familiar pull of gravity, and she felt the nausea of coreolis wash over her as she passed the barrier into the ring.

The massive central corridor of Tycho's hab ring was the same as it ever was, awash with the neon of Pachinko parlors and the garish lights of brothels. Food vendors dotted the street and the aroma of a hundred cultures mingling together filled the air. Indistinct music blasted out from karaoke bars and the human detritus from a hundred different ships paced among the locals hurrying to or from their shift.

It was comforting, in its way. Even after the fall of the EMC and the destruction of Tycho-Pallas. Even after the collapse of Laconia and the fall of the ring gates. Even as a second Tycho was hauled doggedly up from the twisted remains of the first, humanity did not change. Bars and whore houses. Construction delays and cost overruns. Bickering and battling and pressing forward despite it all.

She pulled out her hand terminal, pressed record and sighed out her infinite well of exasporation.

"Dirk, the belters fucked up the drive cone somehow. She's not going to be ready for launch for a month. Might as well cut the burn. I miss you."

She sent it off with an ache in her heart, praying to the void that he would have the good sense to ignore her for once.

 

[StillStunned]

a swarm of construction waldos

Just the other day I was thinking how no-one ever seems to use the word "waldo" anymore. I had the Heinlein story at the back of my mind while I was writing parts of Goldflower.

 

[filthytrancendence]

Just the other day I was thinking how no-one ever seems to use the word "waldo" anymore. I had the Heinlein story at the back of my mind while I was writing parts of Goldflower.

I godda credit Daniel Abraham and Ty Franck for that one...

 

[StillStunned]

From my WIP for the Born to Run challenge...

But it’s not the Night yet, not the real Night, it’s just a shadow of the Night, with mud and grey strangers and loud cars and everyone caught up in their own business, heads down, mutterin’ into their ’phones, goin’ about their shitty lives on a shitty night in the shitty City, and they don’t know you and you might not know them, just bodies bangin’ into each other, bags of bones and meat and petty concerns, blind to the Night, the glory of the true Night, all the wonder it brings, but just now so are you, blind in the dark that’s ripped by neon lights and sirens, but you know where you’re goin’, you can feel the road that leads along 10th Avenue, across the square and into the alleys, steel and concrete shining from the rain, reflectin’ the neon in warped rainbows that are broken by bodies passin’ by, until you get to the underpass that’s Fast Freddie’s office.

“Twenty bits for an hour, you know the price. How much you got?”

“C’mon, Freddie. You know me. I ain’t no one-timer you need to make a quick bit off.”

“The price is the price. I got costs, risks, overheads. Shit you know nothin’ about. How much you got?”

You play the game every time, Freddie knows how much you have, you know how much time he’ll give you, and you settle on three hours for fifty bits like you always do.

“How’s your sister, Freddie?” Beth, cute thing, smart too, too smart for a life hustlin’ for bits in the City’s underpasses, been to school and got herself some proper learnin’, got her implants done by a licensed worker, not in the back parlour of a tattoo shop, been back now a few months, smiled at you and went on a date, been wantin’ to ask her again but you ain’t seen her, Freddie’s too protective of her, c’mon man she’s a smart girl, can make her own bad decisions, but Freddie’s not lookin’ happy now, lookin’ over his shoulder, looks like guilt, looks bad.

“Beth’s gone missin’.”

“The fuck, Freddie, how’d you let that happen?” He’s got muscleboys, you can see two of them lingerin’ in the underpass, he’s got connections, he ain’t no jacker but Freddie knows people, he ain’t no regular pedlar or common alley rat, but now he sure is lookin’ like one, all shifty an’ loser-like.

“Went runnin’ with a bad crowd. Maximum Lawmen, the Poets. Got herself in a shitload of shit, not seen her now for three nights.”

Shrug, what’s there to say, what’s there to do, another bright future snuffed out, shame ’bout that sweet smile though, but what you gonna do, the Poets, Lawmen, that’s bad shit alright, only a shit for brains would get involved, bye for now Freddie and out of the underpass, back up onto the streets, hunched up against the rain, the drizzlin’ rain, soaks your face in minutes, shove your hands in your pockets, fingers curlin’ around the timebank Freddie sold you, three hours, just three hours, gotta make them last, can’t go off playin’ the hero to some damsel in a dress, fool girl shoulda known better, the Lawmen, the fuckin’ Poets, what the fuck was she thinkin’, gonna just forget about her…