Young Writers Society

Author's Note: The first chapter of a novel I wrote this afternoon for an online anthology I'm submitting to. I'm experimenting with a different writing style here. It's a lot of fun. Enjoy. 

Dodger Chapter 1: Reflection

Stars trapped within a blue-black sky, screaming to be let out. A bright yellow flicker emanating from a wiry lamp post at the street corner. Not a single car. A frigid breeze forcing it’s way through the holes in Johnny Dodger’s restless bones. The boy stopped to take a few breaths: a few long, painful breaths. How long had it been since they’d arrived? None of that mattered now. The only thing that mattered was finding this man; the only thing that mattered was finding Mr. Eliot.

Johnny stood up straight, hoisting the blue denim satchel over his left shoulder. Noises. “Who’s there?” he whispered, realizing that a louder inquiry would’ve been a mere waste of time and energy. Without so much as a look around the intersection, the boy resumed his full sprint through no place at all. “Reach the light,” he mumbled to himself, “Reach the light then turn hard. Don’t look back. Keep on running. Don’t stop again. Pass Dave’s Donut Stop. Turn hard once again. Run faster. Reach the dead end at Summerland Alley. Open the satchel.” It seemed easy enough. The boy tightened his grip on the denim strap of the satchel as he rounded the lighted street corner. Yellow wisps of eerie light. The low and uneven patter of suede sneakers hitting the concrete pavement, growing faster, then slower, then faster still. Not a single car.

Checking his watch; It’s already midnight. “This ain’t no fairytale.” A fresh blanket of warm perspiration swept over onto his forehead. Johnny gave it a swift wipe and kept on running. The satchel bounding up and down against his back with unrelenting force. “Stop that,” he thought, “You know what happens if they hear you.” His chest tightens, contractions becoming shorter and shorter. “God damn Asthma!” he shouts. “Fuck an inhaler!” The boy slows down. A light jog. The satchel heeds his request. Lighter pats to the back. Dave’s Donut shop in his rearview mirror. He’s not a car. He’d probably be a mini cooper, not a smart car. Smart cars got nine lives. He’s got ten. Turning the corner. Not a single car.

Summerland Alley in all its glory. Banana peels litter the ground. A nearby booze puddle reeks of missed opportunities and broken dreams. Johnny wonders how many reflections he’d see if he looked into that puddle. Checking his watch; it’s 12:01. Making good time. “That ass is mine.” he chuckles as he swings the satchel from over his shoulder and onto the ground, just missing the booze puddle. Opening the satchel. A few comic books, the February issue of Jet, a couple of glass die, and an autographed nude of Marilyn Monroe, shopped and forged of course. “The fuck?” hisses the boy, balling his fists and clenching his teeth. “What does Mr. E. want with this shit?” Not his place to wonder. He wonders anyway. No, he waits. Not a single car.

“Good afternoon, my boy. How’s the nearsighted, farsighted, everything-in-between-sighted Dodger doing tonight?” A top hat, about six inches too low, a purple bowtie, straight from a hooker’s pipe dream, and a navy blue suit, purple trim, just barely loose enough to make it seem like it covered a human.

“Cut the crap, Eliot.” Sharp tone, no dulling this one. “Where’s the shape?” Sweaty palms on both sides, two gloved, two bare.

“Whatever you say, Dodger. But first, where’s the pack?” Top hat removed, slowly. Large, purple eyes, hungry for an answer.

“Everything’s in here.” Satchel thrown into the air. Caught by a white-gloved hand then stuffed into the hat. Muffled cackles and an ear-to-ear grin. Hat back on.”

“Now give me the shape!”, shouts the boy, his tone sharper than before.

“What ever do you mean, Dodger?”

“The shape! Give me DeNira!” Fist clenched, teeth gritted, and a young Johnny Dodger with his hand on his right pocket. A metallic bulge, blue steel.

“Oh, the shape!”, sings Eliot, a gloved hand marking the rising and falling of a condescending falsetto. “Your dear friend, the shape, trapped within her own body, searching for a way out like infant stars trapped within a blue-black sky!”

“This isn’t the time to be getting poetic, Eliot. Hand her over.” Johnny Dodger at war with the voice inside of his head. Checking his watch; it’s 12:18. Running behind schedule. “Now, Eliot!”

A gentle laugh. Eliot straightens his tie and cracks his neck. “Taste hatred, Dodger.” A flash of radiant purple light and Johnny Dodger on his back in the middle of the alleyway, rubbing his aching eyes.

“For fuck’s sake!” he coughs, “I know you wouldn’t try to pull that.” No response. No satchel. Eliot gone. A perplexed Johnny Dodger checking his watch once again; it’s 2:00. “How the fuck?” Another lost. Are they getting close? The boy turns over onto his right side, a sharp pain running down his left. Expired rum in his face. He jerks back, wincing. “That bastard!” Johnny’s reflection in a puddle of booze, cockeyed. His newsboy cap knocked to the side. Dark circles under his eyes, hanging like missed opportunities and broken dreams. Not a single car.