Young Writers Society

It was winter, but in the middle of new London you wouldn’t be able to decipher its brutal chill from the winds of summer. Ever since the world got dimmer the weather turned grey with it, and not even the old excuse of global warming was heating it up. Everyone had to cope.

Flakes of snow started to float from the clouds like thin scraps of paper. They sparkled amongst the city lights thanks to the black walls of the giant skyscrapers, which glared down at a drearily uniformed street. The snowflakes seemed to disappear once they passed the huge news screen, blaring from the side of an office block. From then on the sounds of the city came to life; honking, shouting, laughing, nattering, static screams from electrical mechanisms… the poor snow had been subjected to the life of a human being, which had grown even dirtier since the prime years of early 2000. Now in 2029, the only thing anyone could do was conjure up more of the same technology again and again to fill the world with garbage.

In one coffee shop on the opposite side of the road to the gigantic news screen, a few business men were sat around a small wooden table taking the chance to guzzle a few mugs of coffee before they were due to start another 4 robotic hours at office desks. The car engines outside were muffled thanks to the smart glass fitted in the window last week. It made their stay a lot more comfortable, which was why they’d been coming in so often lately.

“Have you seen this?” One of the men growled, flicking the paper he was reading around the table to show his friends. “This man here has been given a 5 year sentence for speeding.” He slapped the paper on the table, “I mean, it’s speeding! What the hell have they given him that long for?”

The others tried to keep their mouths shut and drink some more of their viscose coffee, but it was hard to stop themselves from admitting the articles stupidity. A few of the men chose to ignore it after seeing some unfortunate people get locked up for a few months for conversing over such issues. However, one of the men leaned over the table to whisper something to the others.

“It could have been something else, there’s probably more to it anyway.” He explained, trying to be reasonable about the situation.

The man with the paper smirked and sat back in his chair. He stroked his chin and stared at his pal with an amused expression.

“You know what it is, you don’t have to lie.” He sighed casually, “The judge won’t have liked him, he’ll have given him as much as possible. The government have gone mad with this law enforcement, and what’s more funny is that I remember back in 2009 when there were riots over the governments lack of action!”

A little plump man started to chuckle. He didn’t open his mouth to talk so quickly, as he had to swig his drink down as quickly as possible.

“You sound like a Tagger, Saul.” He chortled. Everyone kept quiet for a moment, and a young waitress walked over to the table to take a few empty mugs. The men watched her as if it was something to do while they all dwelled upon what had just been stated.

Once she walked away, Saul pointed towards the other man and began his defence.

“I haven’t committed a crime yet have I?” He asked with a smile lingering on the side of his face, “And besides it’s what everyone else is thinking, so if I’m a Tagger, so is everybody.”

In the corner of the coffee shop, another man was sat by himself next to the window. He had a beanie covering his head, and along with that disguise he kept a newspaper in front of his face. He was considerably younger than the other men in the shop, and the only thing on his body making him look the least bit stocky was his huge khaki parker wrapped around his small and skinny frame.

He looked around the newspaper once he overheard the men talking about Taggers. It had been all over the news. It was the most recent rebel group around; then again, they’d probably been active for years. Gangs like that usually had.

The men stood up and pushed their chairs back so they scraped along the dusty wooden floor. Saul turned around to the waitress who was holding a small silver square in her hand. He pulled out a card from his pocket and jabbed it into a slot that was on the top of the silver device, and quickly removed it. The waitress let them leave, and after that quick and easy payment they walked through the automatic door into the city streets.

The young boy, Lori, watched them until they had disappeared around the corner. He stood up from his chair and walked over to the till where the waitress had gone.

She was tapping away on a screen-less computer. The blue tinted holograms would come up with a customers name and face once they had submitted their card details. Every time a new card came on every restaurant and bar kept a record of the details so they could keep a tab. It was just another way that superior companies could keep records of you.

She turned around to Lori and smiled, holding the square device out to him. He shook his head and handed over a ten-pound note.

“I pay with cash.” He explained.

She accepted it, but her face couldn’t hide her confusion. Hardly anyone paid with cash anymore, and if they did they were considered shifty. Lori didn’t mind. For about an hour he’d been sat in the corner of a coffee shop hiding his face from any customers who wandered into the buildings warmth – he looked shifty anyway.

Once he walked away with his change in his hand, he smirked a little. Hell, he didn’t just look shifty, he guessed he was shifty.

He walked through the door. It brushed past a small chime hanging from the ceiling and made a tinkling noise, but once Lori was on the streets it was silenced by heavy motor sounds and the wailing wind. It blew him back a little so he pulled up his collar and lost himself into the stream of pedestrians flowing down the pathway.

If you looked around the city, you could probably spot a tag wherever you were. They were on walls, doors, benches, litterbins… anywhere you could possibly imagine. They appeared to be your run of the mill graffiti tags, but in fact, they all had a special meaning that no ordinary passer by could configure.

Lori passed a tag on a post box. He popped his head over the people by his side and took a good look at it. If there was one thing he’d love to learn at that moment in time, it was how to read those tags.

The flow of pedestrians led him to a small alleyway that cut through the block of buildings into a public garden. He swiftly stepped sideways into its security, and took his time to stroll down the path. Finally there was peace. You didn’t have to walk at anybody else’s speed than your own, which was rather refreshing when you seemed to be walking a fast pace for no reason at all.

Lori had no need to hurry. He could relax in that alleyway and never move if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to. He’d rather be on the move.

He kicked a few stones into the wall to his left and started whistling to himself. After finding that whistling wasn’t the most interesting thing to do in the world, he fell against the right wall and studied the left wall.

He huffed. White spray paint had caught his eye. There was a tag just above the small window on the opposite wall. He examined it, remembering similarities to other tags he’d seen in the city – until something peculiar appeared.

Above the tag was written ‘Lori.’

He frowned, and walked over to it. He stood right in front of the tag and stared at the name tagged on the brick. Did that mean him? Was it some kind of message? He tried to convince himself it was a mere coincidence, but the paranoia of his identity being discovered took over his whole body. He started to tremble.

He turned round to look at the other wall, and sure enough, there was another tag. It was high, next to yet another window, but he could only just work out the English lettering over the top.

It read, ‘Yes, I mean you.’

Immediately he looked for cameras. He checked every nook and cranny in that alley where a camera could be hidden, but he couldn’t find any. Plus, he couldn’t see anybody near the alleyway who could be spying on him. Never the less, it was clear to him that he had to leave that alley as quickly as he could.

He raced towards the park. Once he got out he glanced around the green and the benches lining the cobbled pavements. There was nothing suspicious. The only problem with the park was the amount of people lingering around its property. There were families taking leisurely strolls, students messing around near the small pond in the centre, businessmen having brief talks on some picnic benches sat on the raised grass… he couldn’t decipher if anyone was following him – if there was anybody at all.

But eventually, he saw a tag. He ran up to the litterbin it was sprayed on, and walked round its cylindrical shape to try and read the message. He knelt down and looked at it straight on. It was hard to read with the bins surface being ridged.

‘Watch the man on the bench.’

Lori froze. Which bench? The idea that these tags were speaking to him was ludicrous, and guessing that there actually was a man waiting for him in that park was even more obscure.

Never the less, he turned round. He held his breath – but no one was on the bench behind him. He sighed, slightly disappointed, but felt a little relieved. So he wasn’t going mad. The tags were probably just made for fun, to perk up someone’s life.

Just as he’d got to his feet, he noticed someone move at exactly the same time he had done.

Behind the bench were a group of small trees, lined in parallel to the direction of the path. Behind those trees was yet another path leading in a different direction. As if the landscape of the park had been mirrored, there was a bench on that path in exactly the same place as the bench on Lori’s side. On that bench was a man – a rather shady looking man.

Lori locked eye contact with him. The man’s glare had paralysed him, and unless he moved, he knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

A crowd of people were heading his way. They walked past Lori and cut off his eye contact with this mysterious man. He took the time to breathe and to blink, but in that space of time, the man had lifted his hand into the air.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

He fired three shots into the air from a gun hidden up his sleeve. Everyone screamed and scattered all over the park. Chaos brewed up around Lori. The crowd of girls who had passed him by were now racing over to the bench near him to find cover.

Lori, on the other hand, ran as quickly as his legs could carry him out of the park.

“Shit.” He hissed as he ran. He repeated it over and over in his head. That bastard who had fired those shots had run down the opposite path. The crack from his gun would attract police, and that was something Lori didn’t want at all. He had to escape as fast as he could before anyone arrived, and even if he longed to follow that crazy man, he couldn’t.

He’d lead him into trouble, he was sure of it.

He escaped into the city streets again, and barged through the river of pedestrians. He spurted onto the road and sprinted over the tarmac, dodging traffic as he went. He got a few frustrated honks from drivers heading his way, but once he’d stuck his finger up at them and jumped onto the next pavement he’d already forgotten about that.

He continued to push past the pedestrians and disappear down yet another alleyway. Once he was down it, he felt safe and secure in its darkness, but out from nowhere he felt a gloved hand grab his mouth and drag him into the building to his right.

He tried to rip away from the rough textured hold, but before he could attempt to yell for help, something dense hit him over the head and knocked him out cold.

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Ok, well, thanks to Fish for influencing me to write such a thing. Well done Fishy you've made me crazy once again.

Erm, I guess I should explain myself, as those who have read this opening will deserve one. I have a feeling that most of the description won't make sense. I need someone to second that, so if you share my opinion, please tell me on the little reply thingies on the bottom! Yep, down there....

And also, I called this thing Racoon because I'm going through the alphabet in my documents, and I was up to R. Yep, it's how it works in diggerland...

I'd also like to add that i'm not the most experienced writer. I definately wont add things that are really complicated english thingys, I mean jeez louise, I'm worse at English than a caveman with no hands. It took me years to even think about adding apostrophes to my work, and my mum's an English teacher for jaffa sakes...

I'll be quiet and let you all rip apart my work, have super happy fun time.