Story Skeleton
This may turn into something....
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In a steaming alley, near the loading docks and shipping yards, a group of runaways sit in a circle, sharing a jug of shoplifted wine. Eager faces glow and bloom under streetlamps and the billboards glowing with filigreed neon.
Darren rubs his hands together and blows on them. His sweatshirt is cut so his thumbs poke through the fabric, and his knuckles are scarred and calloused from a past stint working at a local impound lot.
A kid named Slowdive seated to his left nudges him and leans over: “Darren, what you doing man? Sitting all silent and shit.” Slowdive has been Darren’s running partner for the better part of three months, and they consider themselves brothers of a sort. Slowdive’s head is shaved, and is nestled in an army-surplus jacket bearing the name Jackson, which obscures wiry arms covered with tiny, blue script depicting the logos of various punk bands, meaningless tribal symbols, and slogans like IT'S A COLD WORLD and I’LL RISE.
“Shit man, I don’t know,” says Darren. “I thought I saw her today, over near the pool-house.”
Slowdive grins; his front teeth are crooked, and separated by a black, spit-covered gap. “Oh right, sure thing bro. I’m telling you bro, you seeing and pursuing some imaginary girlfriend is straight up crazy. You’re fucking crazy, bro.”
“Fuck off.” Darren spits; his mouth tastes metallic and his legs are twitching; the wine isn’t working, isn’t rounding off the rough edges.
Across the circle two girls, dressed in spiderweb black, are kissing, their hands on each other’s hips stiff with mutual fear, and some of the guys are catcalling and whistling and elbowing one another. Lighting a cigarette, Darren stares at the ground, drawing in a patch of sand with the tip of his shoelace. Slowdive ambles back over, bored with the spectacle, and sits down on a pile of wooden crates.
“So Darren, did you hear what’s going down later, over near 5th and Barstrom? Fucking alley-fight dude, you want to check it out?”
“Between who?”
“Who gives a shit? I think it’s between Boston Dan and some guy who works over at the machine shop.”
“What over?”
“Didn’t hear. You down?”
Darren takes off his sweatshirt and lies down, using the bundled cloth as a pillow. “Man I don’t care about any fight unless I’m in it or you’re in it, you hear me? Fuck it, it’s a waste of time.”
Slowdive kicks an empty beer can, obviously disappointed. “Then what we gone do man? It’s a slow night and ain’t neither one of us holding.”
“There’s ways to remedy that.” Darren wants to impress her, wants to create a spectacle to draw her to him, want to fuck the city and leave it burning.
“We ain’t got no money.”
Darren sits up, reaches into his pocket, and produces a small, brown paper-bag. “I said there’s ways to remedy that,” he says, producing the oiled metal of a nickel-plated .38 revolver.
Slowdive whistles, and then scampers off, returning with his backpack. Opening it, he tilts it to where Darren can see inside. Burglary tools: bolt-cutters, crowbar, flathead screwdriver. “Well,” says Slowdive, “my mama always told me to come prepared.”
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In a steaming alley, near the loading docks and shipping yards, a group of runaways sit in a circle, sharing a jug of shoplifted wine. Eager faces glow and bloom under streetlamps and the billboards glowing with filigreed neon.
Darren rubs his hands together and blows on them. His sweatshirt is cut so his thumbs poke through the fabric, and his knuckles are scarred and calloused from a past stint working at a local impound lot.
A kid named Slowdive seated to his left nudges him and leans over: “Darren, what you doing man? Sitting all silent and shit.” Slowdive has been Darren’s running partner for the better part of three months, and they consider themselves brothers of a sort. Slowdive’s head is shaved, and is nestled in an army-surplus jacket bearing the name Jackson, which obscures wiry arms covered with tiny, blue script depicting the logos of various punk bands, meaningless tribal symbols, and slogans like IT'S A COLD WORLD and I’LL RISE.
“Shit man, I don’t know,” says Darren. “I thought I saw her today, over near the pool-house.”
Slowdive grins; his front teeth are crooked, and separated by a black, spit-covered gap. “Oh right, sure thing bro. I’m telling you bro, you seeing and pursuing some imaginary girlfriend is straight up crazy. You’re fucking crazy, bro.”
“Fuck off.” Darren spits; his mouth tastes metallic and his legs are twitching; the wine isn’t working, isn’t rounding off the rough edges.
Across the circle two girls, dressed in spiderweb black, are kissing, their hands on each other’s hips stiff with mutual fear, and some of the guys are catcalling and whistling and elbowing one another. Lighting a cigarette, Darren stares at the ground, drawing in a patch of sand with the tip of his shoelace. Slowdive ambles back over, bored with the spectacle, and sits down on a pile of wooden crates.
“So Darren, did you hear what’s going down later, over near 5th and Barstrom? Fucking alley-fight dude, you want to check it out?”
“Between who?”
“Who gives a shit? I think it’s between Boston Dan and some guy who works over at the machine shop.”
“What over?”
“Didn’t hear. You down?”
Darren takes off his sweatshirt and lies down, using the bundled cloth as a pillow. “Man I don’t care about any fight unless I’m in it or you’re in it, you hear me? Fuck it, it’s a waste of time.”
Slowdive kicks an empty beer can, obviously disappointed. “Then what we gone do man? It’s a slow night and ain’t neither one of us holding.”
“There’s ways to remedy that.” Darren wants to impress her, wants to create a spectacle to draw her to him, want to fuck the city and leave it burning.
“We ain’t got no money.”
Darren sits up, reaches into his pocket, and produces a small, brown paper-bag. “I said there’s ways to remedy that,” he says, producing the oiled metal of a nickel-plated .38 revolver.
Slowdive whistles, and then scampers off, returning with his backpack. Opening it, he tilts it to where Darren can see inside. Burglary tools: bolt-cutters, crowbar, flathead screwdriver. “Well,” says Slowdive, “my mama always told me to come prepared.”
posted by David at 8:11 PM
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