Writing as Jeremy
First Post
Between 3.30am and 4.30am, the city sleeps with one eye open. Dark windows look blankly outwards; high, dormant walls shrug their shoulders, half-aware of the few small, solitary creatures still moving around out there. From my window on the third floor, I can see one other human being.
It hobbles to a cold doorway across the street and, keeping itself balanced against the wall with one hand, defiantely vomits all over the concrete step. Good, I think. A solicitor called Sean lives there, and he's a cunt. That's another story.
The shape inexplicably loses its grip on the building and nearly tumbles facefirst into it's own fresh bile, now dripping from the edge of the doorstep into a large box full of Sean's recyclables. I gasp, but the shape's left hand launches itself to the other's rescue and the figure returns, lumberingly but not without skill, to an upright position, arms outstretched as if to say proudly 'Disaster - averted!' I applaud a little.
I watch as the shape moves on to the next adventure. A fox, rare and beautiful, pokes its head out from under an alleyway gate and, expecting to find itself alone, understandably starts at the presence of the other strange creature, staggering up the middle of the road so as to avoid collisions with parked cars. The fox freezes, and I can see it briefly consider sinking back into the shadows. The human has begun to sing itself a little song to the tune of It's Not Unusual, made famous by Welsh crooner Tom Jones.
It's not unusual to be bummed by anyone.
It's not unusual to be... to be... fund (or maybe 'funned', neither make any sense) by anyone.
So if I see you getting bummed by anyone,
It's not unusual [unclear mumbling].
Ooooooooooh, I wanna die.
Determining that the risk posed by the figure is, at the worst, minimal, the fox slips under the gate and trots casually across the road. The human shape stops in its track and halts the ditty. The fox senses danger, and also freezes.
For a moment, a drunk human and a fox stood staring at each other, trying to determine their next move. House-trained, contemporary modern-man and wild, alien nature, united in a way unfamiliar since the former lived in caves and either ate or were eaten by the latter. The fox lifted a paw, preparing to finish crossing the street. The human felt instincts he did not understand seize his mind.
"A fucking FOX!"
The hunting cry rings out through the street, doubtlessly spilling over onto neighbouring streets and buildings, and waking others to the excitement of the chase. A threatened fox moves at what must approach the speed of light - a man, reaccustomising himself to the taste of blood (both figuratively and literally, I'm willing to guess) after a gap of a thousand generations, moves significantly slower. The chase is over before it has even begun. The fox leaps heroically over a fence into a private garden, and the man stumbles to the same fence and shouts over the pickets
"Wake up! I said WAKE UP! There's a FUCKING FOX IN YOUR GARDEN!"
At this point, not to be outsmarted by an animal, he tries to scale the fence himself and, surprisingly, makes it. He topples out of sight, venturing bravely out of safety of the streetlights and into the darkness, into the fox's lair, but for his wits unarmed.
Next week: Why Sean is such a cunt.
Between 3.30am and 4.30am, the city sleeps with one eye open. Dark windows look blankly outwards; high, dormant walls shrug their shoulders, half-aware of the few small, solitary creatures still moving around out there. From my window on the third floor, I can see one other human being.
It hobbles to a cold doorway across the street and, keeping itself balanced against the wall with one hand, defiantely vomits all over the concrete step. Good, I think. A solicitor called Sean lives there, and he's a cunt. That's another story.
The shape inexplicably loses its grip on the building and nearly tumbles facefirst into it's own fresh bile, now dripping from the edge of the doorstep into a large box full of Sean's recyclables. I gasp, but the shape's left hand launches itself to the other's rescue and the figure returns, lumberingly but not without skill, to an upright position, arms outstretched as if to say proudly 'Disaster - averted!' I applaud a little.
I watch as the shape moves on to the next adventure. A fox, rare and beautiful, pokes its head out from under an alleyway gate and, expecting to find itself alone, understandably starts at the presence of the other strange creature, staggering up the middle of the road so as to avoid collisions with parked cars. The fox freezes, and I can see it briefly consider sinking back into the shadows. The human has begun to sing itself a little song to the tune of It's Not Unusual, made famous by Welsh crooner Tom Jones.
It's not unusual to be bummed by anyone.
It's not unusual to be... to be... fund (or maybe 'funned', neither make any sense) by anyone.
So if I see you getting bummed by anyone,
It's not unusual [unclear mumbling].
Ooooooooooh, I wanna die.
Determining that the risk posed by the figure is, at the worst, minimal, the fox slips under the gate and trots casually across the road. The human shape stops in its track and halts the ditty. The fox senses danger, and also freezes.
For a moment, a drunk human and a fox stood staring at each other, trying to determine their next move. House-trained, contemporary modern-man and wild, alien nature, united in a way unfamiliar since the former lived in caves and either ate or were eaten by the latter. The fox lifted a paw, preparing to finish crossing the street. The human felt instincts he did not understand seize his mind.
"A fucking FOX!"
The hunting cry rings out through the street, doubtlessly spilling over onto neighbouring streets and buildings, and waking others to the excitement of the chase. A threatened fox moves at what must approach the speed of light - a man, reaccustomising himself to the taste of blood (both figuratively and literally, I'm willing to guess) after a gap of a thousand generations, moves significantly slower. The chase is over before it has even begun. The fox leaps heroically over a fence into a private garden, and the man stumbles to the same fence and shouts over the pickets
"Wake up! I said WAKE UP! There's a FUCKING FOX IN YOUR GARDEN!"
At this point, not to be outsmarted by an animal, he tries to scale the fence himself and, surprisingly, makes it. He topples out of sight, venturing bravely out of safety of the streetlights and into the darkness, into the fox's lair, but for his wits unarmed.
Next week: Why Sean is such a cunt.