Title: Isn't It Somethin'?
Author: Virginia Wildchild
Summary: Chicago vignette in Velma Kelly's POV about dilapidating society.
Note: Extremely short. My first fic. Ever. Be kind, but I'm open to all sorts of CONSTRUCTIVE criticism.
Disclaimers: Not at all mine. One can wish, though. Chicago belongs to the great wonderland that is Miramax, etc.
Life is unfair. Flat fact. Everyone knows it. I'm not saying it's such a bad thing. It's all a matter of angle, you see. Stiffs see the world through grime-encrusted bifocals, now don't they?
Everything's painted mush green. Portraits on the walls of nightclubs reek of the stinging of booze and bottle shards on the floor. They stink of the smoky, haze-filled halls, pounding rhythms, the crash of snazzy jazz gushing out of a window crack, into a silent, black-and-white void, nothing resounding but a tinkling of a fine piano.
Crazy, dizzy silence that everyone wants to get away from. They'd rather drink themselves into the liquid rush of sin and intrigue. The rat-a-tat- tat and bright lights of Chicago made you forget why you fled from your own black-and-white. That such a bad thing? I'd never thought so, because I got a piece of the grand life ... for a while. It never occurred to me that my own indifference would turn on me. Just like my cocker spaniel of a sister. Ah, but that's another story. I admit, though, that it all had to do with the lack of one thing. One little word that lost real meaning. Yeah. Class. We ain't got it. Back in the glory days when all was silver and not gold, you could pass by some decent fella and greet him.
You know what? Not only would he greet ya back, he'd tip his hat too, give you a sweet peck on your hand. And you'd smile in that oh-how-flattering way, a way without feeling scandalized. Good manners. See? People knew when to keep their two cents to themselves, as well as their grubby mitts. Nowadays, ya can't walk by a bustling street without being run down by some kid scampering around for a meal or a prayer.
Or catchin' a two-bit quiff on a corner trying ease money outta some high hat. Decency? Ha! It's all a big joke. Morals? A crime in itself. People who don't wanna hear the hooey call it a great time to be living.
Isn't it, though? It's a place of confusion, a place of too many colors to count. A place where you'd trust some rummy over your own mother. Looking from that bittersweet point of view, direct from me to you, it's my heaven and hell.
Author: Virginia Wildchild
Summary: Chicago vignette in Velma Kelly's POV about dilapidating society.
Note: Extremely short. My first fic. Ever. Be kind, but I'm open to all sorts of CONSTRUCTIVE criticism.
Disclaimers: Not at all mine. One can wish, though. Chicago belongs to the great wonderland that is Miramax, etc.
Life is unfair. Flat fact. Everyone knows it. I'm not saying it's such a bad thing. It's all a matter of angle, you see. Stiffs see the world through grime-encrusted bifocals, now don't they?
Everything's painted mush green. Portraits on the walls of nightclubs reek of the stinging of booze and bottle shards on the floor. They stink of the smoky, haze-filled halls, pounding rhythms, the crash of snazzy jazz gushing out of a window crack, into a silent, black-and-white void, nothing resounding but a tinkling of a fine piano.
Crazy, dizzy silence that everyone wants to get away from. They'd rather drink themselves into the liquid rush of sin and intrigue. The rat-a-tat- tat and bright lights of Chicago made you forget why you fled from your own black-and-white. That such a bad thing? I'd never thought so, because I got a piece of the grand life ... for a while. It never occurred to me that my own indifference would turn on me. Just like my cocker spaniel of a sister. Ah, but that's another story. I admit, though, that it all had to do with the lack of one thing. One little word that lost real meaning. Yeah. Class. We ain't got it. Back in the glory days when all was silver and not gold, you could pass by some decent fella and greet him.
You know what? Not only would he greet ya back, he'd tip his hat too, give you a sweet peck on your hand. And you'd smile in that oh-how-flattering way, a way without feeling scandalized. Good manners. See? People knew when to keep their two cents to themselves, as well as their grubby mitts. Nowadays, ya can't walk by a bustling street without being run down by some kid scampering around for a meal or a prayer.
Or catchin' a two-bit quiff on a corner trying ease money outta some high hat. Decency? Ha! It's all a big joke. Morals? A crime in itself. People who don't wanna hear the hooey call it a great time to be living.
Isn't it, though? It's a place of confusion, a place of too many colors to count. A place where you'd trust some rummy over your own mother. Looking from that bittersweet point of view, direct from me to you, it's my heaven and hell.
