So I found this beginning of a book the other day, and kind of like it.
The night was full of bruises. Fresh blues and purples of dark, fading greens and yellows in lights, blossoming now in the dead of night rather than on the faces of regretful men. The night was old, and the barroom brawls had stopped quite a long time ago. Now it carried quiet, almost begged for some semblance of noise in its absolute silence. Small pools of water from earlier rains were still collected on the dirty pavement, still slick and glistening, but made no squelching or splashing sounds under my feet. On the contrary, it almost seemed to mute any possibly sound my light footfalls might have made otherwise. There was a slight foul and sharp taste to the air, the combination of beautiful cleansing rain and the dirty streets it had fallen on with the filthy pollution surrounding it all.
Stores and apartment buildings lined the trashed sidewalks, decorated with unlit signs and dim advertisements. Overflowing trash cans added to the metropolitan chaos of the streets. Lumps and bundles of cloth interrupted the emptiness. I knew they hid homeless people, huddled away in their sleep, seeking a haven from the bitter cold. I didn't slow when walking past the groups of people, though pity bloomed in my heart for them. I couldn't imagine having to live out in the cold and dirt, carrying my lives on their backs, warmth found only in ragged clothes.
"You'll not find it here."
I stopped in mid footfall, momentum shattered along with my thoughts. I looked around me for the source of that rasping yet clearly crisp voice. When no appearance was made, I glanced down by my feet. The man laying on the step leading into the bookstore was barely discernable from the dark around him. Rags lay about him, apparently no longer useful for warmth in their destroyed state. He looked up at my with bright eyes, completely still, waiting for a response. I waited a few moments.
In the darkness, it was difficult to make out any real features with the barely there light of the few flickering street lamps. I could see enough to see the muted drags that covered him, whose original color I could not make out, I think less from lack of light than the dirt encrusted on them. His grimy cap covered a great deal of his head, as well as the threadbare jacket serving as a makeshift blanket. Never before had I seen anyone so absolutely covered in cloth. His bright eyes shone out from beneath them, the only part of his body I could see. He hadn't moved at all, but seemed to have been sleeping and then awake, no shifting or changing, just in one state and then in another. I could see no remnant of sleep in his glittering eyes.
"Excuse me?"
"I said, you'll not find it here. And you won't."
I had no idea what he was talking about. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean. What do you mean by 'it'?"
"The thing that you're looking for." His voice was patient but condescending, as if talking to a child. But as far as I knew, I wasn't looking for anything. I was simply walking home from the pub. I told him so.
"Nonsense. Don't be ridiculous. Everyone is looking for something." He came to his feet, cardboard crunching underneath him as he shifted his weight across it. Grimy blankets peeled off of other grimy blankets, falling down in an embrace with the more hygenic ground. I could feel my nose rankle and wrinkle from the stench that rose with him, but stopped my initial reaction, not wanting to appear insensitive or mean. It was quite possibly one of the hardest thing I've ever had to do. "Anyways, what you're looking for is much more important than what anyone else is." I shook my head. "Oh, come now. I know. It's alright."
"Look, I'm sorry. I don't know what you're talking about. Do you want some change? Is that what this is all about?" I shoved my hand in my pocket and pulled out a couple of single bills, pushing them towards him. Tips.
His forehead wrinkled. "No, no, no, I don't want your money. I want you to find what you're looking for." He batted my raised hand away to my surprise. What was his deal? I decided that talking to him wasn't doing anything. Another tactic then.
"Okay. Okay. Well I'm just going to go and look for it then, alright?" I started walking past him when a clawed hand grasped my arm. Firmly, tightly, but without hurting me. I turned and saw him looking at me, curiosity in the parts of his face not covered by his matted hair.
"That's the wrong way." I sighed. This was the direction of my flat.
"Okay. Which direction do I need to go then?" I decided to oblige the madman and just walk from there. I could circle the block to please an old homeless man.
He tilted his head and gave me an odd expression. 'Don't you know the way?" I shook my head, afraid for a moment that I was about to destroy his entire illusion. I didn't want to deal with an angry crazy homeless man right now. He sighed and shifted the one remaining blanket wrapped around him off of his legs. "Well then, I'll teach you." He pushed past me with a hufee, stench falling behind him, hitting me like a wall. I waited for a moment, unsure if I should further allow his delusion, or just continue home. My curiosity eventually urged me to play along, and I began to walk towards the man, waiting for me at the end of the curb.
It wrote it in June, and would do a major rewrite, but am thinking of continuing it, something that would be similar to Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere. I was hoping to get some thoughts first. Thanks!
