By Tiff Dawkins
Date Posted: Monday, 14 June 2010
Tiff is in year 11 in a small school in south west England. She is in the middle of her GCSE’s and hopes to go art college next year. Her interests include indie films, music and American culture, and some of the characters in her writing and art work are derived from these sources. This story is a winning entry in our writing competition.
Jesus Of Suburbia
Fish bones and cracked craniums crumbled under the weight of a new pair of crimson red sneakers, encasing the feet of a lonely rebel. Leather jacket, slick black greased back long hair, jaded jeans ripped at the knees, scars and scabs, pockets full of empty lighters and a cigarette hanging lazily out of his mouth, only a person of this nature would wander the bone yards at night, searching for everything and anything beneath the glow of the pale moon. Shouting on the east coast could be heard from the west. Men were brawling in the alleys; girls were being whipped from their feet. A Harley suddenly parked up beside the boy in the yard. A small Asian girl wrapped tightly in denim smiled at him, he smiled back letting his cigarette fall to the floor. His foot ground it out into the enamel flecked dirt and he clambered onto the back of the bike, his arms tightly linking around her small waist. The bikes soft growl hummed and echoed throughout the wasted streets. The homeless sat around fires made on the side of the road, drunk and stoned, threatening and vulnerable.
The girl pulled up outside of the 7/11, kissed him off as he hopped down from the bike and sped around the corner leaving him in awe as a cloud of dust temporarily blinded him. He flipped out a set of black Wayfarer sunglasses and chuckled quietly at the irony as he wore them.
The K-mart was empty, as always at this time of night. Only the greasers and the senile ventured out of the city limits. Jimmy peered over the top of the shelves. Nobody was here. He looked around for the shopkeeper. No sign. He saw the first thing in front of him and stuffed it in the inside of his jacket. There was still no sign of the owner. However, as Jimmy hastily pleased his greed a grubby old man crept up behind him and pressed a long rusty shotgun against the back of his neck. Jim sighed, turned on his heel and knocked the man out with a packet of bourbons. Jimmy hopped over the counter, stole a few packets of cigarettes a bottle of whiskey and a lighter.
Jimmy kicked the fire door open. Alarm bells violently shook the ceiling and heavy droplets escaped from the valves above. The gasoline mixed and congealed with the water and the forecourt transformed into a colourful but grimy scene. The Harley was back and behind it was his heart. Her dirty face creased in frustration as she pulled back the rusty handle of the petrol pump. Jim barked with laughter. The girl flipped him off and swung her leg over the bike saddle, propping her tiny frame in line with the handle bars. Again he hopped on the back.
They both heard a wail and out from the 7/11 hurried an old woman, sporting a sack of potatoes, throwing them as hard and as fast as she could. The only hope she had was to serve justice to the crooks who had temporarily wounded her lover. Jimmy laughed at her pathetic attempt to disable them. He grabbed a small box out of his pocket and pushed it open. It revealed one small matchstick. He smiled as he held it tightly between his index finger and his thumb and dragged it slowly over the rough surface of the box. There was no flame but Jimmy was only teasing the elderly woman. He flicked it quickly through the strip of friction and dropped it on the ground.
Jimmy and his girl, Margaret Yang stopped in a parking lot full of boys and girls, men and women, mohicans and spikes, skinheads and dreadlocks, denim and leather, studs and dog collars, tattoos and piercing, hate, love, anarchy, the slight smell of wet dog and aerosols. They got off the bike, sat lazily on the edge of the cliff next to the rebels and watched the K-Mart burn down over the river as they lit up their relief and drank down their problems. They were home.