Walking down town in the dark. Cobbles glossy with neon lights and vomit. All around me dance strange creatures of the night, whooping, hooting, howling. Wolf-whistles and cat-calls. Boys and girls, birds and beasts. Faces daubed in garish warpaint, bodies clothed in strange plumage, tattered rags, or barely clothed at all. Chips fall to the ground and scatter; bottles fall to the ground and smash. Girls' ankles twist sickeningly in heels and yet they stumble on. The walking dead. I walk on past zombies and skeletons, mummies and vampires, witches and devils and so, so many slutty cats (Clare's accessories are terrifying, granted). Here's a jilted bride and there's Bane and here's Alex and his droogs and there's Cleopatra (comin atchya), side-step to avoid a pack of Smurfs and dear-god-no-he's-NOT-Edward-Cullen-urgh
and then,
there's me,
A lone hotdog wandering through Market Square. Neither terrifying nor terrified. More, bemusing. Bemused.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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