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Okay, this'll be it for the night
I wrote this quite a few years ago. It made me grin and it made me sad to read it again. Can you guess who these people are?? And by the way, I have no idea who Zoe is, she's inconsequential.
The guy looked in his mid twenties. His wavy brown hair reached his shoulders. He had a distinctly handsome look, a black vest, concha pants and snakeskin boots. His partner was a redheaded woman, she had a pretty but distraught face. Around her neck hung an entire collection of love beads and chains, she wore an abundance of rings and bangles, that complemented her loose cheesecloth dress. The two were playing cards over a bottle of Southern Comfort. When he spoke, it was a low baritone, made for poetry, Zoe thought. She had a voice that Zoe had heard described before. After thinking a little she found it - whiskey and cigarettes, husky.
The second couple sat relatively silently. The woman looked tough, but not quite tough enough for some reason. Her blonde hair was scruffy and she wore a torn tank top and jeans. When she spoke she had a husky voice similar to the other woman's. The guy seemed lost in his own world. Brown hair falling over his face. But the newfound intuition told her this guy had the voice of an angel.
The next couple were seated at the far side of the bar, deep in conversation. A young man, early twenties, she guessed. His long, pale blonde hair was glinting. She remembered coming home from big parties like that. When a couple of girls would go around dumping bags of glitter in your hair. He looked just like he had come from one of those parties. His coat was long and white, on closer inspection it proved to be leather. He pushed his purple tinted sunglasses up revealing a pair of deep brown eyes. They were some of the most beautiful eyes Zoe had seen. Mischievous, loving, but also sorrowful. His faded jeans gave way to red canvas, hi-tops, also decorated with shimmering glitter. His voice was unusual, but the distinctive feature was the wicked laugh he occasionally emitted. More mischievous than the corresponding part of his eyes. His consort was dressed in black jeans, a wide belt, and a white singlet. His brown hair was short and he sported a moustache. When he spoke it was in a campish, aloof, pommy voice. She heard that voice - 'I'm just a musical prostitute dears.' - but still couldn't place it. She wasn't sure she'd get along with the pom. But the glitter guy seemed enraptured to be talking to him.
On the small stage stood two men with white Fender Stratocasters. One seemed older than the other but the younger one seemed to be the one teaching the older some guitar tricks. His hair stuck out wildly from all sides of his head in an unruly black afro. He wore a frilly, flowered shirt and tie-dye jeans. His guitar was upside-down. He was clearly outrageous, a black dandy. His student had a cowboy hat keeping his hair in check. He wore western gear. A long sleeved-shirt with one of those shoelace-things-with-a-buffalo's-head, around his neck. Blue jeans and black boots. He was sweating like a pig. His face contorted in what seemed - easy concentration. He caught on to a lot of his teachers tricks easily and was giving a few tips back.
At the pool table stood the most odd couple of the lot. A beefy man (longish brown hair, moustache), dressed in jeans and a tight shirt opposed a thin teenager. Unmistakably punk. His black, fluffy hair stuck into the air and he was adorned with ripped leather, chains and safety pins. The only similarity was the cigarette dangling from the corners of both of their mouths. Each had a bottle of beer awaiting on the edge of the pool table. Both spoke with English accents. But the punk's was a little more cockneyed. The sort that misses the t sound when they say a word like kitten or button so it comes out k-in or bu-in.
Even though they looked usual enough, the couple philosophising on the centre table were the most imposing of the lot. Both wore reading glasses with black rims. The brunette with round ones, the blonde with regular shaped ones. Like Garth's in Wayne's World. They seemed to be speaking of religion and martyrdom and being cultural figureheads. The brunette seemed quite healthy. His hair was thick and bouncy. His clothes were normal, if distinctly hippie. The blonde's shoulder length hair on the other hand was straggly. He wore layers of clothes, the outer ones being a faded, slightly ripped pair of jeans and a green library sweater. His voice was gravely. Her mind gave clues but she still couldn't, hardly even bothered to figure out who they all were. Heroin afflicted. Bronchitis. Stomach pain. Bottles of cough syrup guzzled like cans of cool drink. The brown haired guy had an unmistakable, sardonic, Liverpudlian accent.
After regarding these figures, perhaps trying to get their attention. She locked on the central couple again. The smokescreen seemed to magically lift. Many of the people looked either very gaunt or slightly bloated. The punkish woman looked beaten. The glitter guy's face was an unnatural shade of blue with crimson around his mouth. The pom seemed deathly thin and pale. The cowboy seemed too wounded to be able to be standing there, whiddling away on his Strat. His legs looked broken and his head seemed to be caved in. The beefy pool guy had dried vomit around his mouth. Zoe tried not to gag but focused on the centre two again. The brunette had five distinctive bullet wounds. Blood trickled from them all, blood poured from his mouth down his face. The blonde didn't even have a face!. Where his mouth should have been was a gaping maw. The rest was just a melange of blood and bones and facial tissue. Now it wasn't fear, or horror that filled her, but a sharp pang of despair as she realised who these people were, that she'd never see the gorgeous blue eyes that belonged to the blonde.
Oh yeah and before I forget, I also love Queen, almost as much as Led Zeppelin. I love Freddie Mercury more than Jimmy Page I know that.
The guy looked in his mid twenties. His wavy brown hair reached his shoulders. He had a distinctly handsome look, a black vest, concha pants and snakeskin boots. His partner was a redheaded woman, she had a pretty but distraught face. Around her neck hung an entire collection of love beads and chains, she wore an abundance of rings and bangles, that complemented her loose cheesecloth dress. The two were playing cards over a bottle of Southern Comfort. When he spoke, it was a low baritone, made for poetry, Zoe thought. She had a voice that Zoe had heard described before. After thinking a little she found it - whiskey and cigarettes, husky.
The second couple sat relatively silently. The woman looked tough, but not quite tough enough for some reason. Her blonde hair was scruffy and she wore a torn tank top and jeans. When she spoke she had a husky voice similar to the other woman's. The guy seemed lost in his own world. Brown hair falling over his face. But the newfound intuition told her this guy had the voice of an angel.
The next couple were seated at the far side of the bar, deep in conversation. A young man, early twenties, she guessed. His long, pale blonde hair was glinting. She remembered coming home from big parties like that. When a couple of girls would go around dumping bags of glitter in your hair. He looked just like he had come from one of those parties. His coat was long and white, on closer inspection it proved to be leather. He pushed his purple tinted sunglasses up revealing a pair of deep brown eyes. They were some of the most beautiful eyes Zoe had seen. Mischievous, loving, but also sorrowful. His faded jeans gave way to red canvas, hi-tops, also decorated with shimmering glitter. His voice was unusual, but the distinctive feature was the wicked laugh he occasionally emitted. More mischievous than the corresponding part of his eyes. His consort was dressed in black jeans, a wide belt, and a white singlet. His brown hair was short and he sported a moustache. When he spoke it was in a campish, aloof, pommy voice. She heard that voice - 'I'm just a musical prostitute dears.' - but still couldn't place it. She wasn't sure she'd get along with the pom. But the glitter guy seemed enraptured to be talking to him.
On the small stage stood two men with white Fender Stratocasters. One seemed older than the other but the younger one seemed to be the one teaching the older some guitar tricks. His hair stuck out wildly from all sides of his head in an unruly black afro. He wore a frilly, flowered shirt and tie-dye jeans. His guitar was upside-down. He was clearly outrageous, a black dandy. His student had a cowboy hat keeping his hair in check. He wore western gear. A long sleeved-shirt with one of those shoelace-things-with-a-buffalo's-head, around his neck. Blue jeans and black boots. He was sweating like a pig. His face contorted in what seemed - easy concentration. He caught on to a lot of his teachers tricks easily and was giving a few tips back.
At the pool table stood the most odd couple of the lot. A beefy man (longish brown hair, moustache), dressed in jeans and a tight shirt opposed a thin teenager. Unmistakably punk. His black, fluffy hair stuck into the air and he was adorned with ripped leather, chains and safety pins. The only similarity was the cigarette dangling from the corners of both of their mouths. Each had a bottle of beer awaiting on the edge of the pool table. Both spoke with English accents. But the punk's was a little more cockneyed. The sort that misses the t sound when they say a word like kitten or button so it comes out k-in or bu-in.
Even though they looked usual enough, the couple philosophising on the centre table were the most imposing of the lot. Both wore reading glasses with black rims. The brunette with round ones, the blonde with regular shaped ones. Like Garth's in Wayne's World. They seemed to be speaking of religion and martyrdom and being cultural figureheads. The brunette seemed quite healthy. His hair was thick and bouncy. His clothes were normal, if distinctly hippie. The blonde's shoulder length hair on the other hand was straggly. He wore layers of clothes, the outer ones being a faded, slightly ripped pair of jeans and a green library sweater. His voice was gravely. Her mind gave clues but she still couldn't, hardly even bothered to figure out who they all were. Heroin afflicted. Bronchitis. Stomach pain. Bottles of cough syrup guzzled like cans of cool drink. The brown haired guy had an unmistakable, sardonic, Liverpudlian accent.
After regarding these figures, perhaps trying to get their attention. She locked on the central couple again. The smokescreen seemed to magically lift. Many of the people looked either very gaunt or slightly bloated. The punkish woman looked beaten. The glitter guy's face was an unnatural shade of blue with crimson around his mouth. The pom seemed deathly thin and pale. The cowboy seemed too wounded to be able to be standing there, whiddling away on his Strat. His legs looked broken and his head seemed to be caved in. The beefy pool guy had dried vomit around his mouth. Zoe tried not to gag but focused on the centre two again. The brunette had five distinctive bullet wounds. Blood trickled from them all, blood poured from his mouth down his face. The blonde didn't even have a face!. Where his mouth should have been was a gaping maw. The rest was just a melange of blood and bones and facial tissue. Now it wasn't fear, or horror that filled her, but a sharp pang of despair as she realised who these people were, that she'd never see the gorgeous blue eyes that belonged to the blonde.
Oh yeah and before I forget, I also love Queen, almost as much as Led Zeppelin. I love Freddie Mercury more than Jimmy Page I know that.