The City a work of Fiction by brezhnev (James Offer) There is a wierd meaning within this story; but no one will ever decipher it. You awoke cold. Wet, desolate and cold. Below, the harsh moist bitumen bit into your aching back as you spread your palms across the ground and jacked yourself up. Now vertical, you took in your surroundings, your rapid breathing sending pulses of warm air into the darkened alley you had unwittingly became a denizen of. Next to you, a rat scampered from its foetid habitat in a beat-up rubbish bin, oozing with vegetable waste. As your concussion steadily disappeared, you hear a lonely gust of wind siphon loudly through the thin alley. You stand up gingerly, brushing down your black clothes that seem alien to you. As you walk towards the opening of the alley, taking in the strange environment of grey bricks and rusting metal, a hand takes your shoulder from nowhere. Your eyes flash down from gazing skyward to see a similarly dressed figure, a male with ancient features and a wizened face. ëCome. We have much to see.í The man thrusts his hands into his pockets and walks off slowly, an aura of trust already extending from him. Exiting the alley, you find yourself in an equally dark avenue. Around you, huge buildings reach skyward like strange trees. And through the bizarre meshwork of iron girders and fencing slung meticulously between the buildings high above you, the grey hue of the sky is just visible. The avenue is huge in width and length. It stretches out forward and in reverse as far as you can see; another one interconnecting with it in an equal infinity, their decaying street signs playing like a spectre on the edge of your memory. Darkened exhaust stains leave a legacy to long vanished automobiles. Your feet patter against the ground softly as you jog up to the man, walking casually in his black hat and flowing trench-coat. ëSo, what do you think?í The man asks. As you release a bewildered statement in reply, he turns down one of the interconnecting streets. Suddenly there are figures upon the street. Most are huddled against the wall, their featureless faces hidden by a circuitry of long, dirty hair. Below you something crunches. The elderly man looks down at your feet as you pick up the shattered remnants of a plasma-stained syringe attached to a rusty needle. ëTheir tool.í The man says, again continuing walking up this street. As the morbid voyage continues, the destitute figures become more destitute. Some lie motionless in a coma-position, their stale vomit nauseating their semi-conscious olfactory; others sit slumped with syringes erect in their arms, rusty blood flowing down their arms while the junkie-protein within the platelets tries desperately to clot the puncture. Ahead, the only moving figure in sight besides your guide ushers a strange pus-like fluid into a cylinder from the trickle of liquid hugging the edge of each kerb on the road. Attaching a needle with several quick twists of his hand, his blood-shot eyes look up at you hypnotically. He slowly raises his hand and offers you the gift. As you tear your eyes from him in a gesture of rejection, he slides the rancid-looking syrup into his arm via the cold, steel needle. With an unhealthy euphoria he falls against the foot-path. Soon you see horrific scenes; a raven picking at an unnaturally coloured body and an infant beating at its vacant mother, both moaning neurotically. As you approach another turn-off in the asymmetrical city, the man cuts in front of you and leads up another street. You are slowly comforted by a warmth that soon mutates into a dangerous feeling as the street evolves; red lights flashing, androgynous whores in plastic wrapping, pimps arguing with unknown figures and throbbing music. The whores shout at both of you; each playing on your lustful emotions, by-passing what you think is right as you snake curiously over to them, your companion unperturbed by their siren-like existence. As you approach each one, their features distort from that of pure, virgin arch-angels into swelled and bruised sacs, the soft lustful features with their tanned charisma morphing into evil, fibrous scales secreting a vile aroma. As you repulse from another, another siren call lures you. And this continues, each one more attractive and at the same time more repugnant. Again your guide changes your direction into another identical street. You are met by a stagnant battlefield; burning wreckage of tanks, half tracks and trucks scattered as far as you can see. The vehicles are a strange mix, ranging from the Great War to Vietnam. Soon you see men; soldiers equally exotic in their war homage; their faces embossed with frozen agony. They are all dead; some with gas masks, some without. The ones with sit just as limp and dead, Geiger counters chattering away at their sides while their rifles lay discarded. Fires and barbed wire are strewn intermittently through the nightmarish battlefield. Blackened corpses lay in the latter while bloodied and torn corpses lay tangled in the former. ëWhere am I?í You ask finally, the elderly man stopping and looking at you, a howling and bitingly cold stream of wind cascading past your face. ëWhere do you think you are?í He asks. Suddenly the names of the streets flash meaning in your mind... ëA metaphor for the human condition maybe? You tell me; this is your nightmare.í The man says, walking off into a near alley and disappearing as suddenly as he had appeared. Created on Tue, 12 Aug 1997 and last modified on Sat, 20 Dec 1997.

LOUDonline - http://www.loud.net.au - Fri, 10 Apr 1998