AIU: pt 2: Bad Penny Baby
Aug. 9th, 2006 10:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonA no traffic street corner. The calm silence of a Monday night. Sitting on her front porch allowing herself just this one cigarette, just this second beer before bed. Flanked by two windows, lit up blue with the glow of a television she's not watching, her home resembles the face of some drowsy giant. There aren't many of them left in the city anymore: Homes that is. She can see the construction cranes rising over the flow of moon lit rooftops across frome her, the promise of townhomes and stripmalls, the promise of tomorrow.
She drops her butt down the neck of the bottle and is ready to call it the night when she catches a movement out of the corner of her eye. The wind picks up and she turns around as if she heard her name called. Across the street there is a lawn that is two months past overgrown extending from a beat up old shack passing for a house. There a rusted bicycle floats over the knee high grass like the skyline of an abandoned city. From behind the flat tire of it's single wheel it steps out and towards her.
A small calico, limping forward through the rainforest lawn, a solid black band masks it's phospherscent eyes. It crosses the swail and navigates carefully around the rain filled potholes of the street, each one reflecting back up the starless night neutrally. The cat disappears behind her dented Volvo.
The wind calls her name again: "Trissss-sshhhh"
She can smell him now: That unique blend of weird chemical magick soaked in sweat, sex and bluff. The stink of bad luck lingering off an old book. Musk mix of cigarette smoke and old ghosts.
Her Bad Penny Baby's back in town.
"Mrr-iissshhhhh" the Calico hisses from the edge of the banister behind her. Closing her eyes she answers back with a name she's spent the last year trying to forget.
"Adam!?!?"
"Hey Angel... " She turns around and catches him as he falls of the edge of the banister, "...miss me?"
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The Jack O'Shadows can smell him too.
Fear smells like mold. Like rotting wood half buried in the soil. Like stacks of newspapers found in a damp basement. Fear is the pus of the soul. The unaired wound of buried wishes, chances unrisked, the frozen anticipation of a fist perpetually threatening to strike. Fear tastes like pepper spray and squirms alive on the tongue. Fear tastes the same no matter what that fear may be.
Adam reeks of fear.
A thousand tiny red eyes scatter, like a nest of spiders stirred, around a pool of black flowing in and out of the outline of a man. They shift and settle in the direction of an empty road. Leyline footprints lead from a hiroshima shadow burnt into a brick wall and zig zag all the way down to a no traffic street corner.
She drops her butt down the neck of the bottle and is ready to call it the night when she catches a movement out of the corner of her eye. The wind picks up and she turns around as if she heard her name called. Across the street there is a lawn that is two months past overgrown extending from a beat up old shack passing for a house. There a rusted bicycle floats over the knee high grass like the skyline of an abandoned city. From behind the flat tire of it's single wheel it steps out and towards her.
A small calico, limping forward through the rainforest lawn, a solid black band masks it's phospherscent eyes. It crosses the swail and navigates carefully around the rain filled potholes of the street, each one reflecting back up the starless night neutrally. The cat disappears behind her dented Volvo.
The wind calls her name again: "Trissss-sshhhh"
She can smell him now: That unique blend of weird chemical magick soaked in sweat, sex and bluff. The stink of bad luck lingering off an old book. Musk mix of cigarette smoke and old ghosts.
Her Bad Penny Baby's back in town.
"Mrr-iissshhhhh" the Calico hisses from the edge of the banister behind her. Closing her eyes she answers back with a name she's spent the last year trying to forget.
"Adam!?!?"
"Hey Angel... " She turns around and catches him as he falls of the edge of the banister, "...miss me?"
The Jack O'Shadows can smell him too.
Fear smells like mold. Like rotting wood half buried in the soil. Like stacks of newspapers found in a damp basement. Fear is the pus of the soul. The unaired wound of buried wishes, chances unrisked, the frozen anticipation of a fist perpetually threatening to strike. Fear tastes like pepper spray and squirms alive on the tongue. Fear tastes the same no matter what that fear may be.
Adam reeks of fear.
A thousand tiny red eyes scatter, like a nest of spiders stirred, around a pool of black flowing in and out of the outline of a man. They shift and settle in the direction of an empty road. Leyline footprints lead from a hiroshima shadow burnt into a brick wall and zig zag all the way down to a no traffic street corner.