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Jack

Something I wrote...

Lying on the floor between the blood-splattered bar and the chair hat had obviously been involved in the brawl, was a man, in his middiling 40's, known as Ed Brynes. His black shirt had a rip up the right hand sleeve to the shoulder, showing an old scar from his prison days, which was now covered by a new gash, which had been given to him just hours earlier. He also wore a pair of black, strait-leg jeans and black lace up shoes. His hair was going grey slightly. A sign of much worrying...Mind you, he had a lot to worry about.

"Bloody-Hell" - whispered Tom to the deafening silence. Tom was in his early to mid 20's, and worked at the pub every night. He was glad for the company ever since he split with his girl.
He had a mop of brownish hair and was good looking under anyones views. He had many friends but prefered his own company and that of his dog, a husky, named Jones, a stray that had seemed to adopt itself to the home.
As a general rule, Tom preferred not to be involved in this sort of business, however this 'business' always preferred to involve Tom.

Winston, on the other hand, was the one that went looking for it. It was almost like he searched for it purposefully, leaving no corner unturned. He reminded you of your nosy next door neighbour who always 'popped in' at the 'wrong time'.
Winston Jones, other than his rumaging for trouble, was famous for his ruggedly handsome looks, cheeky smile and even cheekier banter. He could charm himself out of anything. Or into anything as the case generally seemed to be. Odd thing was, there was, there was something about him that reminded Tom of his dog, which was how it came about to be called Jones. Fortunatly, Winston was completly oblivious.
Winston was a tall man, about 6 foot 4, and had medium length dreadlocks. He was in his late 30's, pehaps 38, and had come to London with his mother and brothers at the age of 7, from Jamaica. Kingston to be exact.

"Hey-move it- lemme see" Win, as always was eager to see what it was all about, and poked Tom in the back, slightly overenthusiasticly, making Tom almost jump forward. He stepped lightly over the broken glass, as if not to disrupt the chaos. He moved slowly over to the chair lying on its fron, just to the side of the man- who had not yet moved-on the floor.

Winston ran round the back of the pub and disappeared out of sight.
"Don't move 'im...or that chair...tha's evidence that is" Ziggy half-whispered, half shouted over to Tom who was bending over in a precarious position to pick up the chair.
"eh...what...oh, yeah" he replied dreamely.
Ziggy was young, pehaps aged 19 at the most. He could easily be described as flighty. You could say he was like a puppy that has been slipped to many E's. He was Winston's nephew and throughly entrance by everything he did, looking up to Winston who dragged him round all day( and sometimes night) willingly, teaching him the tricks of the trade. He had a heavy London accent, far away from Winstons think, rolling Jamaican patois.

He wandered over towards Tom and stood leaning over the blood soaked carpet.
"Wow. Could'nt-a-made-a cleaner job could 'e" and Ziggy walked round and disappeared the same way Winston had earlier.
Tom, now alone at the front of the pub, stood silently over the body, shocked. Its right foot was twisted to the left in an unatural position and the right arm was lying to the side of the body. His left arm was up at an anglelying face down on its palm. He was facing to the left, away from the door and it was impossible for Tom to see its face. Just below the left shoulder there was a small bullet hole in the the shirt. The shirt was heavily stained with blood, making it blacker than it was, as was the carpet around the body, a few feet around. The wall to the left was well splattered as was the right. Tom began to look up towards the wall around the bar, as if examining the scene or trying to see what had happened.

He suddenly snapped out of his reverie with a violent jerk. Sitting behind the bar in the shadows to the left was a young women, maybe 20, with a smile creeping across her face as if she had been watching Tom's movements the whole time. She giggled and swung round so her legs were behind the bar and walked off, still laughing into the darkness. She was dressed all in black except a long thin red leather band around her neck with a small silver pendent on the end. Her laugh was beautiful and she sounded like a small child. She had slim features, pixie like, and a small cropped hairstyle which made her look even prettier. She had this angelic evilness about her. She was entrancing. Tom was still staring at the spot she had once sat and her giggle ringing in his brain. It made him nervous. She seemed not to care for the fact there was a dead man lying in front of her, as if it were an everyday occurence. And her smile. It was as if she were guilty of something but you just couldn't bring yourself to think it, let alone state such an atrosity.

The slim, fairy-like figure, danced in his thoughts in a sheer lemon chiffon dress, shoulders rolling in the cut up material. It seemed as if she just danced to her own tune. Nothing could be heard except the silent music. Her white plimsoles took to the floor with a graceful twirl and neat pirroette. She was as elegant with her movements as Ginger Rogers and had the allure of Lauren Bacall.

Just as suddenly as she was there, she was gone, and not a trace was left. Even the elegance she bought to a seedy backstreet pub with a dead man on the swirling psychedelic carpet, ahd all but left the building. The Frogs Arms of London welcomed Tom back in with a crooked smirk.

 

 Every thorny edged word and double edged sword, strikes me through the heart
A stone in its place, though it may be, you chip it away like a minor for gold.
But, my love, you will find nothing, you can't take blood from a stone.

He stands on the doorstep of No. 31 and rings the bell for flat 3. The name reads 'Stage'  in smuged ball point, though no one under such a name lives there. Lily goes down to open the door. Peter stands with a glass of gin in his left hand, and a white, rooted rose in the other. Thoughtful, she thinks sarcastically.
How could he have the nerve to turn up at her flat, drunk and still drinking at 3.30 in the morning, with a rose that he just picked from the park garden?

Live by the sword die by the sword. O' but what a sword hath been given to her. It jabs at her heart, a stoney shape in her fleshy skeleton. Tears run through her veins and arteries. Blood, warmth, had long but given up with her. Her veins have suffered from long nights and longer days of complete and utter defeat, succumbing to the pure rush of perfection. Dependent on it. Hooked. Dope-fiend.Junkie.

 

Our meeting place under the old Vic cinema where we shared casual kisses and the odd cigerette.
Now every night theres the passing of money into dirty dealers hands.
Oh it should've been the sign of the times.
All the drinks we shared in the pubs and the clubs, were they just something to pass your time.like you had nothing better to do than waste my time.
Our old movies, they could end, but this could never,
our ever-flying kites, they'd fly forever.
Like Bogart and Bacall we'd stay together
But ever-blinkered we just can't find our way.

 

 

About me
I am a creative

Age: 16
I live in Luton - United Kingdom 
Last online: 26/08/2008

Status: Single

I enjoy these activities:   Photography Photobooths polaroids SLR's and rolliflex pics handwritten notes on the back of ciggie packs mystery notes to mystery people on a mystery train/bar ect in the local london newspapers that get handed out on the street and at stations very desperatly seeking

My favorite books are: pirates! nineteen eighty four down and out in london and paris junk the town and the city on the road

My favorite films and tv shows: Factory Girl

I really like these kind of bands:  the clash babyshambles libertines sex pistols the skallywags charley bates Blood Red Shoes Dirty Pretty Things the kills glasvegas

What I'm looking for:
to meet other writers, to network, to make new friends, to show my work, to engage in intellectual debate,