Question - does this sound noirish so far? Writing for a prompt.. never done noir before.

It was one of those bars where your face would only been seen at closer than three paces. Smoke hung thick in the air and the overhead lights barely made an impact on the gloom. Shadows hunkered down in booths; whispering, plotting. Ice clinked against glass as various top-shelfers drowned whatever woes had reared their ugly and unwelcome heads that day. Occasionally there’d be a snap of the fingers; the bartender moving like a thief in the night to refill with nothing more than a nod of the head. It was one of those bars where nobody knew your business, and nobody was going to ask.   

Mickey stared at the brown envelope lying on the stained oak surface before him. It was case out of left field, one of those that could either turn out to be a destroyer or one of those doozies. He had bet big on the latter; hoping against hope that this was the one case that would make him. Lose, and he would surrender everything he’d ever worked for.

As it turned out, this was the one case he should never have taken; the one case that was just too damned big for him to charm or blast his way out of. One that had forced him into an impossible choice. He drowned himself in bourbon, praying for a moment of clarity and the answer to come. 

Thunderstorm.

I was walking down the street, dodging oncoming pedestrians out of the corner of my eye, the sound of my flip-flops providing a steady beat. My head was in a book; I forget which it was, but it was engrossing. A feisty breeze whipped around my bare legs, shorts flapping about at my knees. I stopped still and gazed up at some rather ominous-looking grey clouds racing across the sky, and chuckled to myself. A passing old lady gave me a funny stare and shuffled off a little quicker than before. I carried on ambling down the street, knowing full well that any moment the heavens were going to open up and I was going to get drenched. Instead of heading hurriedly for home, as everyone else seemed to be doing, I walked down to the bridge, where I was afforded views of the mountains all around town. I stood, allowing the wind to tousle my hair and refresh my bones, waiting. And then it began, raindrops the size of five zloty coins beating down upon my head, soaking my clothes through in seconds. Then came the first of the flashes, a great surge of a power so frightening a chill ran up my spine as I saw it appear to slam into the hilltop off to my right. One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi, four-Mississippi, five— and then the booming sound of hot crashing into cold, a great war for the skies unfurling high on up. The second flash did for me, because it seemed a lot, lot closer than the one before; a great pulse of purple-blue light causing me to turn on my heels and scurry off as quick as my inconvenient footwear would allow.

This was my storm routine, my open-air taunting of those deities I believed almighty – the gods and goddesses of the elements dancing around the playground we often looked up to in worship. I made it home in less than five minutes, as was always the case living in such a small town. I stood at the balcony door, safe enough behind a translucent wall to watch the storm rage.

As much as I dared to confront this higher being they called Mother Earth, standing there exposed and unwavering, I knew that she would always, always have the better of me. Hers was a power too terrifying to even comprehend.

Guest (NSFW).

   ‘I really must thank you again for letting me stay. I’d never have been able to visit this great city otherwise. Exchange rates and accommodation costs kill me when it comes to travelling.’

   There was a sincere look about him, and a sparkle in his eyes that Julia found incredibly alluring. She’d invited him to crash on her sofa in a moment of madness, when she’d seen that he was due to visit her city, despite never having actually met him. He’d just been words on a screen, and a picture of a man she’d thought attractive. Now it was the second day of his visit, and all of those fears she’d had after the invitation had evaporated. She had found him to be far more handsome in the flesh, and he’d been nothing but a gentleman as she showed him around town, refusing to let her pay for anything despite him not having much money in the first place.

   He’d also not tried anything on with her. She was used to that kind of attention from men, having to turn down unsolicited offers and shrug off inappropriate comments based on her looks. However, here was a guy she’d expected to proposition her, after all their online conversations, showing no apparent interest at all. This puzzled her somewhat, and she found her interest in him growing. He said all the right things, did all the right things, and she’d given off what she thought was a pretty clear signal – so why hadn’t he made a move? She was not used to this kind of situation, and it stung her.

   She handed him the pile of bedding he’d folded with great care that morning. He’d already changed into a tight blue t-shirt and pair of pyjama shorts, ready to crash at the end of an evening in which they’d shared a couple of bottles of red wine and opened up about hopes and dreams. She’d loved his candour, but even being as honest as he was and with alcohol coursing through his veins, he still hadn’t shown any inkling of taking advantage of her. She bade him goodnight, lingered for a moment at the doorway to the living room as he made the sofa up and lay down on it, then retreated to her bedroom.

   Where she couldn’t sleep.

   As well as the alcohol, she felt an intense desire burning within. She lay there, the minutes ticking by, her imagination running wild. She wondered why he apparently didn’t want her, looked at her the way she wanted to be looked at. All kinds of things, reasons. Was he already taken; some secret girl waiting for him back home? Did he not find her attractive? Were girls not his thing? Now that she thought about it, he’d mentioned nothing about his relationship history in the course of their conversations, online or in person.

   She felt hot, in the humid summer night, so she got up to get a glass of water. Opening the door to the living room, which she had to pass through to get to the kitchen, she stopped for a moment when she saw he’d kicked off the blankets in the same heat.

   And found that he’d also removed his t-shirt and shorts.

   She stood there, frozen in place, admiring his naked form. The definition of the muscles of his stomach, toned but not overly prominent; how his chest rose and fell slowly as he breathed deeply; how his shaggy hair fell over his face. How his skin glistened slightly in the gloom and sticky heat; how his lips were pressed softly shut. Thoughts ran wild through her mind, and she found herself uncontrollably sliding a hand under her silk babydoll, pushing it up to grab her left breast and squeezing it hard. Feeling a sharp sensation manifest itself between her legs and stifling a loud gasp. Leaning against the door frame for support and using her other hand to allow a finger to reach into her lace boyshorts and probe the burgeoning wetness that her searing sex was producing.

   The desire and alcohol awoke a primal need within her. She’d never wanted anyone like she wanted this stranger lying on her sofa, and she couldn’t stop herself from having him. She tiptoed over to the sofa and knelt down beside him, leaning over to let her lips delicately caress his chest. He stirred, but didn’t wake, instead turning onto his side to face her as she shrunk back, her untypical actions thrilling. His manhood hung flaccid against his thigh, thick and inviting. She reached out and took it between her finger and thumb, lifting it so she could wrap the remaining fingers  around it. She gripped it tighter as blood began to flow, and it began to grow hard as she worked it slowly. He groaned but still didn’t wake, so she leant forward and teased the tip of it with her tongue. At this point she didn’t care if he woke up; taking it fully into her mouth, she began to suck.

   She laid a hand on his thigh for support. It was then he woke up, wild-eyed in surprise and confusion. He began to get up instinctively, his growing hardness falling from her mouth, but she pushed forcefully down with her hand and looked up into his eyes out of the corners of her own.

   ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, still groggy. He turned over so that he was lying on his back, but she didn’t stop, taking him back in her mouth. He didn’t seem to complain, either, and she just smiled at him before pausing after a minute or so to climb on top of him and continue from where she left off. She felt him submit to her will, all resistance dissipating. She moaned in approval, taking him deeper into her mouth. He gasped as she did, and felt him reach down and take her head in his hands. She’d always loved that; the feeling of hands running through her hair, but he wasn’t forceful or controlling in doing so like a lot of guys were. He was letting her do her thing, completely under her spell. She was good, and he was letting her know it.

   Looking up at the expression on his face it was clear he couldn’t take any more. She didn’t want him to climax just yet, so she stopped and lifted her head. He just stared at her, before reaching down to pull her up. He kissed her long, and with the kind of intense passion she’d been craving, his hands running down her back, taking hold of her hips and then lifting her babydoll up over her head. She sat up on top of him, seeing the unbridled lust on his face as he took in her small but perfectly-formed breasts, her stomach toned by regular running and the prominence of her collarbone and the blonde hair that fell loosely over it. He was staring at her as if she was a goddess, and in that moment she felt as empowered as one.

   He pulled at her shorts, dying to get to what he knew was waiting beneath. Indulging him, she stood up and removed them slowly and purposefully, before straddling him once again. She positioned herself so that she could tease his pulsating erection, which she did by grinding down on him, her wetness sliding effortlessly up and down his shaft and betraying her arousal. He reached up and cupped her left breast, squeezing hard, and then pinched her swollen nipple causing her to shudder and give a little yelp. She looked at him with a fire in her eyes and a mischievous smile, then returned the favour. He took hold of her sides and tried to flip her over, but she resisted; she wanted complete control, and she would have it. Again he submitted, but she could see that he just wasn’t used to being dominated in such a way. It just aroused her even more.

   She reached down and grabbed his throbbing member tightly, feeling him clench the muscle uncontrollably under her forceful touch. She guided the tip to the entrance to her moistened welcome, but instead of guiding it inside she used it to tease her enlarged clit, stroking it slowly at first before speeding up rapidly. He was her tool, and she would use it as she wanted. She threw her head back as the pleasure coursed through her whole body, oblivious in that moment to his groaning and gasping. She worked herself hard, each pulse bringing her closer to release, each moan louder than the last.

   Before she could climax she thrust him deep inside her, the tight walls of her embrace pushing down on him and trapping him in her carnal desire. She could feel the heat of his manhood surging, and she leaned back so he was at maximum depth. He was hypnotised and rendered helpless by her rhythmic grinding, while she reached down and began rubbing her clit as her free hand reached behind, pressing down on his thigh to support herself. She rode him faster and faster, barely stopping for breath when he slipped out of her, shoving him back inside without breaking stride. Sweat glistened both on his chest and hers as time became irrelevant as it passed and the pleasure intensified. His nails dug into her sides and hers into his thigh, his raging hardness throbbed and she grew even tighter around him, coming once, twice; each time more thunderous than the last.

   He seemed to last an age, something she was in awe of, before increased groaning told her that he was about to come. She rode him as hard as she could now, and as he pulsated more and more inside her she felt herself grow close again, but different. She pushed down and leant back as much as she could, and as he gripped her hips to brace himself she let go, clenching tightly as the orgasm thundered throughout her body, sending him over the edge. He erupted deep into her, hot and sticky and satisfying. She gasped in ecstatic physical relief, before the exertion took its toll on them both and she collapsed on top of him, her head resting on his chest, unmoved.

   Minutes passed, wordless; the only sound their heavy breathing, before she climbed off him and stood up. She picked up her babydoll and shorts from the floor, the mixture of his seed and her juices dripping down the insides of her thighs. She wasn’t concerned. She leaned over and kissed his lips delicately.

   ‘See you in the morning,’ she said with a wink, before turning round and striding back to her bedroom , knowing full well that he was watching her go, watching the sway of her confident hips and shapely rear.

   She forgot all about the glass of water. 

May 25th, 2013.

I’m standing on the balcony, eating a slice of last night’s pizza. I’m shivering somewhat, because it’s cold, and raining. Ahead and off to the left, the clouds are grey and foreboding, and vapour from the rain lingers low over the wooded mountains that surround this town. Off to right the clouds are breaking, the dying and brilliant sunlight of late afternoon making an appearance through a patch of blue sky. There is green all around, enhanced by the golden light, grand trees of all types. A double rainbow illuminates the grey, lustrous and enchanting. There are only three sounds I hear; the sound of tyres on the sodden tarmac, the enthralling sound of raindrops on the tin roof, and the sound of Simon & Garfunkel’s America drifting out from my room. It smells of spring, and of the farm next door; as fresh as you’d expect in a country town.

I come inside and fix myself a drink; rum and coke, more the former than the latter. I need it, right now. Why, when presented with this scene I’d consider close to perfect, do I feel thoroughly miserable?

It could be because I’m eating this pizza as there’s nothing else in to eat, and I have no motivation to go and buy anything. Because I don’t even know if I have money in the bank to do so. Because I don’t know where my future lies past the end of next month. Because I have come to realise that any and all ambition I once may have had has completely disappeared.

But I suspect, more than anything, it’s because I feel completely alone. There’s nobody to share this scene with; no family, no permanent friends, no significant other. Not even a cat to talk at and be stared at strangely in return. I think of all the people out there right now; enjoying a drink with friends, watching TV or having dinner with family, making love to their dearest.

It leads me to this conclusion: life is nothing without someone to share it with, nor will it ever be.

Attention.

All eyes were upon me, and the attention made me uncomfortable.

When I was younger, I’d been pretty much invisible except in times of ridicule. The under-developed kid who liked books and games and didn’t even register on the radars of the popular kids at school. Quietly sitting in the corner of the common room, scratching words onto a sheet of paper while crowds of cool people played cards and gossiped about who was snogging who. Creating worlds to get lost in so that I wouldn’t have to deal with the one I woke up in each morning.

I’d been the kid everyone poured scorn on for being the product of a single-parent household; for having crap, cheap trainers instead of the latest Nikes; for not having had my front teeth fixed after another kid threw a shoe at my face. For always sticking my hand up in class to answer those complex math problems; for being smarter. Ignored, for the most part. Didn’t stop them asking for help with their homework, though, the hypocrites.

I’d come to enjoy that invisibility over time, despising any form of attention; being able to just be me without having to keep up appearances. But all eyes were now upon me. Hundreds, thousands, perhaps millions; all staring, waiting for something profound to happen. Such was success. As much as the attention still made me uncomfortable, after all these years, it was time to push that aside and rise above all those demons.

I opened my mouth, the words came, and the people listened. 

Demons.

“You’re a hard man to find, James Worthington. You’ll be coming with us now. He wants to see you.”

I’d left the house I’d been occupying sometime around midnight. I needed to feel the cool darkness of night to quell the fires within. Fires that rose up and consumed my very being, should I go too long without doing so. I suppose you could call it a form of meditation; a necessary hazard of my being. The air was crisp; there was no cloud cover to prevent the stars from watching me.

I walked my usual route, out of town and up the wooded mountain that cast its grand shadow over the town. Up here I was closer to the heavens than anywhere else in a thousand-mile radius, and this soothed me. I would often come here and gaze upwards, wondering when I would be allowed to transcend. I was growing impatient, but I knew that given my history I would be made to wait.

I watched a satellite steadily make its way across the sky, then turned to look down the mountain. Everything looked so insignificant, as it had in my days of watching from way up above. There was a small light making its way up the path. A flashlight, perhaps. I slipped behind one of the pines that adorned the summit, and watched. As the light drew closer I tried to make out a silhouette, expecting to see a like-minded late-night walker. However, it suddenly vanished; the darkness returned and a desperate unease took hold of me.

I stepped out from behind the tree. Before I could take another step, a burning hand gripped my shoulder. A searing pain surged through my body and my mind, and I found myself unable to move. There was a blinding flash and a sound something like the crashing of waves upon rocks. When I was able to open my eyes again, I found that I was no longer atop the mountain.

I was in a desert, no doubt far from any kind of civilisation. Isolated. The sun beat down on me and if I had been human, the heat would have been stifling. I’d felt this kind of heat before; it reminded me of home. A home I had no desire to return to anytime soon.

I was also surrounded by demons.

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Class Discussion.

“Okay, what’s the tallest mountain in the world?”

The kids sat around the classroom table, unmoved and silent for what seemed like and age. Eventually the class clown put his hand up, not waiting for me to give the go-ahead before answering.

“Żarnowa Góra!” he declared, triumphantly. The other kids burst into laughter. Żarnowa Góra was a hill lying within the Góry Świętokrzyskie, or Holy Cross Mountains, and not very tall indeed.

“No, silly sausage. That’s only about three hundred metres tall. The tallest mountain in the world is more than twenty-five times taller.” I stressed twenty-five times and the kids eyes widened in awe.

“Mister David, does that mean it reaches the Moon?”

“Not quite! It would have to be another forty thousand times bigger to reach the Moon.” Gasps.

“How long does it take to get to the Moon?”

“Well, if you have a rocket, probably not very long at all. I think the Apollo crew took three days to get there, which is over one hundred thousand kilometres a day, or five thousand kilometres an hour. That’s like going from Rzeszow to India in one hour. But if I was running, at the same speed all the time, it would take me four and a half years without stopping.”

“Silly, you can’t run to the Moon. You have to fly.” More laughter all around. These nine-year-olds could be cheeky at the best of times.

“I said if! Of course I can’t run to the Moon. I could run to Żarnowa Góra though.” I winked mischievously.

“My uncle lives near Żarnowa Góra,” Gaja said. She was easily the smartest kid in the class. Slowly but surely they were all starting to contribute to the discussion. I loved these spontaneous conversations, much more than planned lessons.

“Is he a farmer?” the clown asked.

“No!” The girl sounded very defensive in saying that.

“So he’s a pig or a chicken then? My uncle said only farmers and animals live there.”

“Shut up, Kacper!”

“Easy Kacper, calm down,” I said. “Say sorry to Gaja, that wasn’t very nice.” And here starts the riot, I thought.

“No.”

“Kacper… don’t make me put you in the corner again. Say sorry.”

“… Sorry.” Gaja stuck her tongue out at him.

“Right kids, back to work. Discussion over. Turn to page sixty-three, please.”

And so it went on, another lesson with my youngest class. I smiled to myself as I watched them work. Teaching really was fun, when it wasn’t anarchy.

Hole.

I sat on the park bench, watching the world go by. I often did this; there was something inherently soothing about the lives of others. Enjoying the differences between and similarities with my own life, longing for some of the things they had, being glad of not having other things. Mostly, however, it was because time slowed down here, became irrelevant. No deadlines, no stress from constantly being in a hurry.

I watched an ant crawl over my bare foot; I’d slipped off my sandals and allowed the lush Spring grass to caress my soles. Dark sunglasses shaded my sensitive eyes from the blinding sunlight, and a cool breeze relieved me of the baking heat. It was, by anyone’s standards, a beautiful day indeed.

Yet there was something noticeably absent, and I couldn’t quite place it. A hole in my soul, a piece of the grand puzzle inherently missing. It wasn’t anything typical; not a lack of money troubling me, nor the lack of fulfilment at work. It wasn’t sadness at not having a special someone to warm my bed at night and to kiss me softly at dawn. It felt like something deeper, but it was nothing buried in my past. Unlike most, I was completely at peace with everything that had come to pass in days gone by.

High above, I noticed a stork soaring gracefully through the cloudless blue sky. I marvelled at its magnificence and regality. For a fleeting moment I wished I could lead a life of equal simplicity. Then I got thinking; all I had experienced, all of the pleasure and pain and hardship, had made me who I was in that moment. I happened to like who I was in that moment, and was reminded of why I was feeling at peace with everything. I had been on a journey that had crossed countless fields, vast oceans and colossal mountains, and my eyes had been opened like I’d never imagined possible. Letting go of all the pain and hardship, while acknowledging its role in the journey, had been a crucial part of that.

A child on a bicycle sped by my bench, calling out a cheery and accented hello. She was one of my students, and one of a hundred reasons why I loved what I did. A thought popped into my mind: you are who you are and you do what you do for them, for the future. That is all that matters in life.

Moving On.

How does one go about dealing with loss, with the end of something you thought would last forever? With waking up alone one morning when you’ve been waking up every morning for the previous two years next to that special someone? With suddenly not having the drive or purpose that kept you going? With finding yourself an enigma, devoid of hope of a better future?

That’s exactly the quandary I faced when she told me it was all over. A bolt out of the blue. She’d been told by the father of her child, her mother and her overbearing, dysfunctional boss that I wasn’t good enough, and like a sheep she had followed the shepherd blindly instead of following her own logic and reasoning. And so, homeless, jobless and penniless, I found myself at a loss as to my next step.

Now, in this situation, it’s easy for one to fall into the abyss; to give up completely. For a time I did just that, but soon one has to realise that this course is utterly pointless.

For it is not truly the actions of others that hurts us. It is our own minds, which allow the pain to seize control and ruin us. Mind over matter, people always say, without ever listening to themselves.

So I decided to listen. I blocked out that chapter of my life without ever letting go, forced myself onwards and upwards. I emigrated, discovered a new work, new way of thinking, learnt a new language. Immersed myself in the universes of novelists in each book I read, created my own in the stories I wrote myself. Drank myself stupid, pounded the pavements in physical exertion, met a multitude of interesting characters. Watched Time pass me by, taught the world and studied it in equal measure.

And eventually, I felt free. 

Occupied.

<Please take the time to read this, and let me know what you think! I would really, really appreciate the feedback.>

 It was a baking hot day. Too hot for my liking; the sticky heat uncomfortable. Still, it was good to finally be rid of a four-month winter; good to be able to sit in the park and not have to wrap up like an Eskimo and not be stuck indoors twenty-three hours of the day. Good to see some life about this tiny mountain town.

   A town that, like many towns in this country, made no sense architecturally. No uniformity, both hideous and mesmerising in equal measure in terms of colour. Just walking up the high street, the only main road through town, was a visual assault on the senses. Three-storey townhouses with their undersized windows, old wooden bungalows with their painted façades, grand, high-ceilinged colossi that wouldn’t have looked too out of place in the market squares of Copenhagen or Amsterdam. There was a market square here too, one that used to resemble a small park with a few magnificent oaks; one currently being ripped up and soon to resemble a concrete monstrosity devoid of any character.

   As I was wont to do on days such as this, dressed lazily in flip-flops, shorts, t-shirt and open shirt, I ambled up the high street with an open book in my hands. The latest Jack Reacher novel. Gripping stuff really; I’d read over a-hundred-and-fifty pages in just a couple of hours. I occasionally glanced up, just to make sure I wasn’t blindly walking out into the middle of an intersecting side-street, but generally I dodged oncoming pedestrians without as much as glancing up from the page. No doubt I was getting funny looks from the locals. I always did; for being a foreigner, for my dress sense, for reading. Just for existing, really. Not that I cared.

   The auto-pilot in me made a left at the crest of the hill onto the market square, headed for my usual café. Coffee was needed, as it was every day before work. Routines were important to my sanity. Nose still in the book, I walked through the sliding entrance doors of the retail passage that housed this particular establishment, headed straight past the counter to my usual table. The one with the perfect view of the café entrance and out the window onto the square. It was all about angles.

   And it was occupied.

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