AnCatKatie
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
For some reason I wrote more...hmm.
It's actually becoming a bit more of a connected story, thankfully. I left off at a good place, but more of this may come eventually.
Truth, very slightly. Fiction, much more.
***
The air sighed and hissed through the city streets like bad air from a tin can. In the daylight, the claws and scratches of nighttime seemed less fierce, the darkness less like it would swallow him whole. But he stood, still, on the same great brink he had teetered on after the night before. There was something new-formed about this day. He had more senses to feel the sharp, cold, air, more reasons to fear.
Huddled like birds, a few girls straggled past from a group. Dark eyes and hair like the rain-slicked road caught at his for all the wrong reasons and the guilt punched an Ali-shaped hole through him. Eyes narrowed, the girl nearly walked past him, pausing in some intellectual discussion that whirled far above his head to turn her head finally and lean against the gray stone building beside him.
Ali only looked at him. Her silence cut, was disapproval. Paul shivered; the air bit at his arms, threatening. He could not stop comparing the two. In his mind’s eye, an odd parody of his life played out in perfect black and white clarity: there sat the nameless girl laughing at her windowsill, above where he stood, while somewhere else, the tears on Ali’s face bore witness.
He suddenly grew impatient, the words and rising edges of conflicting feelings bursting and snapping, leaving an unfamiliar boy in their wake. He turned from Ali. Whether she would have voiced her disapproval, he did not know. Little stabbing, engrossing words were his footsteps across the sidewalk as he walked to school, a rhythm and meaning of their own that he could not decipher.
Is it just me, he thought, or is it that with every new thing I do, everything I become, the more I discover I have yet to learn?
Empty and full. Empty of people, of meaning, of purpose. Full of directions he didn’t understand. His head echoed.
Trees frowned to the side of the school, in their neat little rows belying the wild shadows at the heart of them that passed in glimpses and odd silences in the heavy unspoken wilderness between the children, leftover from their parents, or perhaps from Ireland. There was an edge of anticipation stinging through the air, foreshadowing some confrontation or other that would mar and baptize the streets again.
It was a cynical boy indeed who laughed in the middle of class—“Paul Hewson?” the teacher asked, and “Who?” he responded—and told them, all danger, what a bloody joke it was to read about children killing each other when this happened in the real world. Nobody spoke; he crumpled the thoughts and the papers in his fist and threw them languidly in the bin, for no apparent reason punching the outside of the wall along the shiny hallway. He shook. The shy kid, David something, backed off and raised his eyebrows at this behaviors, knowing that when Bono Vox wanted to speak, he would speak.
The shadows lost their shaky hold on Paul, the morning suddenly an embrace, wrapping reassurances of mornings to come again and again. The unknown tension left him abruptly. He breathed patterns out into the frozen air. When he turned his head to side, he wasn’t surprised to see Ali. The roiling unsurety internally had calmed; he could speak to her steadily, and did so, an oddly peace-possessed man, for a brief instant, sky winking in his eyes in a short sunrise.
“Worst mistake I ever made in my life,” he tried to explain, hands spread outward, and in this awkward flesh-bound physicality, he was once again boy. She laughed, hard disappointment a harsh undertone ripping through her voice, but tempered oddly with something like forgiveness. Folding sweater-clad arms, she leaned back, her face easing from a glare into a landscape of frozen winter, giving him pause.
“You’re going to have to do a lot better than that, Paul Hewson,” she said coolly, words unchallenged knives. He muttered and stalked away, the morning gone from him. It was about when David Evans caught up, some of the other band members in tow. David was…quiet, letting his words stay on the inside and ruminate for a while, a while the others filled.
“Now who’s a sullen Mullen?” a long-haired boy managed to tell him without laughing.
He glared murder at Larry.
“So, Paul—“ Adam began, easily identifiable by the excess of blond hair escaping from his head. He grinned evilly.
“He doesn’t answer to that name,” Larry snickered, swatting the other boy. “Isn’t that right?” He weighed down the glaring Paul’s shoulders with his elbows. “Bono Vox of O’Connell Street?” he sang out.
“Jaysus,” Adam winced. “There’s a reason you’re the bloody drummer. You can’t sing for shite!”
Larry nudged Adam into silence. “Hey, Edge,” he called to David, “what’s keeping Goodness down?”
“Girl troubles,” David commented. “As far as I know.”
“Edge!” Bono glared, then broke out into a grin, running fast beyond the other boys, who ran and stumbled good naturedly to follow. He felt oddly free, even with all the trouble.
“…oh, she was?” Larry was saying to Adam, intrigued.
Adam nodded. “Never trust the Gaelic girls,” he winked at Bono Vox, who grinned and was about to answer, before by chance he looked upwards, as he always had at this windswept corner of the street. The sky was slate gray, torn by angry exhilarated clouds, but below, in the shadow of a building, there was light and darkness personified leaning from the windowsill. She smiled a faceless smile comprised of the edge of night and those unseen moments that were the only substance of their interaction. Bono shook, meeting her gaze, and was Paul again, breaking away.
“Worst mistake of my life,” he repeated again, as if to ward away ill intent, this time, or to convince himself that everything had changed.
Ill intent laughed, smiled, was pleased.
It's actually becoming a bit more of a connected story, thankfully. I left off at a good place, but more of this may come eventually.
Truth, very slightly. Fiction, much more.
***
The air sighed and hissed through the city streets like bad air from a tin can. In the daylight, the claws and scratches of nighttime seemed less fierce, the darkness less like it would swallow him whole. But he stood, still, on the same great brink he had teetered on after the night before. There was something new-formed about this day. He had more senses to feel the sharp, cold, air, more reasons to fear.
Huddled like birds, a few girls straggled past from a group. Dark eyes and hair like the rain-slicked road caught at his for all the wrong reasons and the guilt punched an Ali-shaped hole through him. Eyes narrowed, the girl nearly walked past him, pausing in some intellectual discussion that whirled far above his head to turn her head finally and lean against the gray stone building beside him.
Ali only looked at him. Her silence cut, was disapproval. Paul shivered; the air bit at his arms, threatening. He could not stop comparing the two. In his mind’s eye, an odd parody of his life played out in perfect black and white clarity: there sat the nameless girl laughing at her windowsill, above where he stood, while somewhere else, the tears on Ali’s face bore witness.
He suddenly grew impatient, the words and rising edges of conflicting feelings bursting and snapping, leaving an unfamiliar boy in their wake. He turned from Ali. Whether she would have voiced her disapproval, he did not know. Little stabbing, engrossing words were his footsteps across the sidewalk as he walked to school, a rhythm and meaning of their own that he could not decipher.
Is it just me, he thought, or is it that with every new thing I do, everything I become, the more I discover I have yet to learn?
Empty and full. Empty of people, of meaning, of purpose. Full of directions he didn’t understand. His head echoed.
Trees frowned to the side of the school, in their neat little rows belying the wild shadows at the heart of them that passed in glimpses and odd silences in the heavy unspoken wilderness between the children, leftover from their parents, or perhaps from Ireland. There was an edge of anticipation stinging through the air, foreshadowing some confrontation or other that would mar and baptize the streets again.
It was a cynical boy indeed who laughed in the middle of class—“Paul Hewson?” the teacher asked, and “Who?” he responded—and told them, all danger, what a bloody joke it was to read about children killing each other when this happened in the real world. Nobody spoke; he crumpled the thoughts and the papers in his fist and threw them languidly in the bin, for no apparent reason punching the outside of the wall along the shiny hallway. He shook. The shy kid, David something, backed off and raised his eyebrows at this behaviors, knowing that when Bono Vox wanted to speak, he would speak.
The shadows lost their shaky hold on Paul, the morning suddenly an embrace, wrapping reassurances of mornings to come again and again. The unknown tension left him abruptly. He breathed patterns out into the frozen air. When he turned his head to side, he wasn’t surprised to see Ali. The roiling unsurety internally had calmed; he could speak to her steadily, and did so, an oddly peace-possessed man, for a brief instant, sky winking in his eyes in a short sunrise.
“Worst mistake I ever made in my life,” he tried to explain, hands spread outward, and in this awkward flesh-bound physicality, he was once again boy. She laughed, hard disappointment a harsh undertone ripping through her voice, but tempered oddly with something like forgiveness. Folding sweater-clad arms, she leaned back, her face easing from a glare into a landscape of frozen winter, giving him pause.
“You’re going to have to do a lot better than that, Paul Hewson,” she said coolly, words unchallenged knives. He muttered and stalked away, the morning gone from him. It was about when David Evans caught up, some of the other band members in tow. David was…quiet, letting his words stay on the inside and ruminate for a while, a while the others filled.
“Now who’s a sullen Mullen?” a long-haired boy managed to tell him without laughing.
He glared murder at Larry.
“So, Paul—“ Adam began, easily identifiable by the excess of blond hair escaping from his head. He grinned evilly.
“He doesn’t answer to that name,” Larry snickered, swatting the other boy. “Isn’t that right?” He weighed down the glaring Paul’s shoulders with his elbows. “Bono Vox of O’Connell Street?” he sang out.
“Jaysus,” Adam winced. “There’s a reason you’re the bloody drummer. You can’t sing for shite!”
Larry nudged Adam into silence. “Hey, Edge,” he called to David, “what’s keeping Goodness down?”
“Girl troubles,” David commented. “As far as I know.”
“Edge!” Bono glared, then broke out into a grin, running fast beyond the other boys, who ran and stumbled good naturedly to follow. He felt oddly free, even with all the trouble.
“…oh, she was?” Larry was saying to Adam, intrigued.
Adam nodded. “Never trust the Gaelic girls,” he winked at Bono Vox, who grinned and was about to answer, before by chance he looked upwards, as he always had at this windswept corner of the street. The sky was slate gray, torn by angry exhilarated clouds, but below, in the shadow of a building, there was light and darkness personified leaning from the windowsill. She smiled a faceless smile comprised of the edge of night and those unseen moments that were the only substance of their interaction. Bono shook, meeting her gaze, and was Paul again, breaking away.
“Worst mistake of my life,” he repeated again, as if to ward away ill intent, this time, or to convince himself that everything had changed.
Ill intent laughed, smiled, was pleased.
thanks. I adore what I've read of yours. It helped me make a storyline (which is always good 
