Beasts of London
It was a dense, grey day in South London.
It was a dense, grey day in South London. There was a whiff in the air, that bin day sniff. The beast pulled up and parked his Hummer on Doyle Street. With care, he attached the crisp yellow parking fine to his windscreen.
A dog licked at a dark purple stain on the ground.
The doorways along the street were evenly littered, someone had even taken the time and care to deposit some dog shit in a bag, then placed the package in the middle of the pavement.
As the beast crossed Portland Road, two weathered women were fighting amidst the traffic, each had the other by the hair. They screamed in rhythmic half tones and grunts.
‘Yiv - eck - gin - ku - daff - fah - err’
Kids on bikes watched, fixated from the doorway of Super Chicken, sniggering, shouting and throwing chips at the women who punched and kicked each other awkwardly, viciously.
Cars slowed and tooted, faces spouted from windows. The heavier of the brawlers swung wildly at her opponent, lost balance, then fell. As her skull impacted with an audible dud on the kerb, onlookers collectively shuddered. And for a fraction of a moment, quiet.
Youths sped off on their bikes as the beast strode on towards the High Street. A fierce shirtless figure wearing a hockey mask raced by on a quad, pulling wheelies.
Bass boomed from cars as traffic backed up on the street. Kids hurried from doorways to car windows, back and forth, back and forth.
Spoons would open shortly, a crowd had gathered to seize the day.
It was 10am.
Based on events I witnessed in 2017, this piece of flash-fiction was long listed for the Bath Flash Fiction award and later published by Ad-Hoc fiction in their Snow Crow anthology, 2021.
Available in paperback here.
All images created using MidJourney Ai, © Rob Swain