Notes toward something (a novel maybe)

He leans heavily against the wall, glad to be out of the rain, even if for a while. 'It's really pouring tonight' he thinks, patting his pockets for his packet of smokes, peering up into the clouds as he does so.

The low hiss-crackle of his cigarette fills in the gaps between the steady pitter patter of rain as he slowly takes a drag, happy for the release that smoking gives him. It's been a long night, and it's not over yet.

The flickering lights and wailing alarm of a passing ambulance catches his attention, and he exhales loudly, studiously ignoring the flitting almost-shapes and faintly glowing eyes of the shadow-things ('lost souls', his mind reminds him 'call them by name, you coward') as they converge on the flickering soul-light within.

'Goddamn opportunists' he thinks, and curses under his breath, never loudly, no no, never let them know you can see them. Dangerous things lurk in the Dark in this City, not all of them human, not all of them Mortal, and it's never good to call attention to yourself. Keep your cards close to your chest, and he's always been very careful. He fingers the small Yasin in his pockets anyway, hoping for some reassurance. There's no such thing as being too careful, after all.

But its been harder to sneak around under their radar, lately. The City is full of them, and he sees their almost-shapes in every shadow, most nights. They've been getting bold, getting restless, moving around in greater numbers than usual, and it's not even close to Hungry Ghost month. That means something, but bugger if he knew what it was. It's at times like these that he wishes he had listened more to his ustaz, but the thought is an idle one. Brings up memories of his childhood, and he'd rather not go there, not tonight.

'Better head out to see Old Ch'ien soon, figure out what's going on. Old bastard owes me one from that hanging girl business, anyway' he thinks to himself, and his mind, unbidden, reminds him of that fiasco.

Too caught up in maudlin thoughts, he forgets the cigarette he's holding 'til it almost burns his fingers. Stubbing it out on the wall, cursing slightly as he does so. So much for that.

He pushes off the wall, steeling his courage. He'll be needing it, tonight.

"Off to work" he mutters to himself, and walks out into the rain, moving towards Heritage Row, already hearing the pounding of deep bass spilling out from the clubs. He has appointments to keep, and the people he's meeting do not like tardiness.

scene change

Well crap, out of all the writing I did over the past few months, this is what I chose to post. Meh, wrote it out on napkins at the Kota Damansara McD drivethrough at 2.30 am. Something, probably the spirit of father Christmas, or Goethe, or indigestion, caused me to write this down in 1 sitting.

Lets see what comes of this.