Queer as Folk (UK, original): Back up North
Usual disclaimers: I do not own any of these characters, they were created by Russel T. Davis etc…
This is my first go at writing a fanfic (though I have been known to write poetry on the strikingly similar Fictionpress) so I would appreciate reviews. It has actually taken about two weeks to get the first chapter from the ideas board into a story, so my publishing rate could be slow. This one is just a short chapter to set the scene with Hazel: others will be much longer, hopefully.
I have rated it K+ because so far there is nothing that anybody over 13 years of age could not handle maturely. However, this is Queer as Folk and it is likely to get somewhat raunchy, so the rating will be raised as and when it becomes necessary. As an open-minded individual, I will not consider the gay theme a factor in rating it more highly: only when it would be taboo if it were between opposite sexes will the rating of this story be risen.
Is there anything that you want to see? I plan to include all or most of the characters, with the possible exception of Alexander (Anthony Cotton), so let me know if you want to see anything.
Chapter One
Hazel stepped off the Magic Bus onto the pavement of Wilmslow Road, Rusholme. Brown leaves and litter blew about at her feet as she opened her umbrella to shelter from the familiar Manchester rain. She looked much older and very worn out. Actually she was only seven years older than she was when her son drove off Canal Street and towards nowhere in particular with Stuart Alan Jones. She was dressed in a knee-length, black coat and dark tights with high-heeled, black leather shoes. She rushed down a side road and into a small terraced house, slamming the door behind her.
"Hazel," shouted Bernie from upstairs, "Is that you?" Bernie coughed hoarsely. His voice was weak and distant.
"Yes, it's me," she replied, removing her coat to reveal a black pinstripe suit jacket with a matching skirt and an unbuttoned pink blouse. "We've been fined five hundred pounds."
"I told you we should just have bought the TV licence," Bernie yelled. "We probably could have spared it, but how the hell are we going to pay five hundred quid?"
"We can't. I'll have to take on some extra hours at work, maybe get Vince's dad to help us with a bit of cash. Do you want a cuppa?"
"Yes, please," replied Bernie, sounding more alive.
Hazel moved into the small kitchen, which was slightly messy: a few pans were on the hob, there were some dirty dishes in the sink and some old Manchester Evening News newspapers on the table. She half-filled the kettle with water and switched it on, then opened a jar to find it empty. Annoyed, she turned off the kettle and went to the bottom of the stairs. "We've got no tea," she shouted to Bernie, "and I can't get any today. We'll have to make do with water." She sat on the bottom stair and sobbed, her face in her knees and her back arched in a foetal position.
"Hazel," croaked Bernie, "Hazel, are you alright?" She continued crying.
There was a knock on the door. Hazel looked up at the fuzzy glass panel and saw a man – or maybe a lesbian – with short, dark hair, wearing a white shirt. "If that's someone asking for money I'm going to fucking kill them!" she thought to herself. She wiped away her tears, got up and opened the door.
"Hiya, mum!" smiled Vince.