Here my children.. have some writing of my 1920s au that I did randomly (below cut)
Rumbles of thunder cuts through the silence of the late night city, echoing through wet, dark alleyways where mud and filth accumulates. The paved streets reflect off the minimal amount of light the moon provides in the sky as the rain patters down, causing an almost slick, smooth shield for the rest of the clouds' tears to slide off and into the filling sewer drains. The sidewalk was equal to the road, but puddles of dirty water pool around cracks and dips deep enough to ruin a woman’s heel or a man’s leather shoes. The water ripples with the lightest touch or movement, warping the reflections of towering buildings and the face that stood above.
Once a face that he didn’t mind showing off to others now became a painful memory of what he once was and what he had become after the war. Jagged scars cut through the once handsome man’s mug, slicing up from the bridge of his nose and to his eye, which made it completely useless to him. It took all attention away from any other features the man had: his freckles, the cleft he had sutured and healed, his well shaven and taken care of facial hair, and the sharp structure his head had. What made his face worse was the constant dead fish look that clung in his eyes after the war with just the smallest flicker of madness.
A stare that made others uncomfortable, but one that some people also recognize because their father, brother, uncle, or whoever else also retained it after the war.
Another crack struck over and the man would unconsciously jerk into himself as if he were bracing for an impending attack or bullet to strike him. Idiot. It’s just the storm ahead. He toughed up quickly as if someone was trying to catch him being ‘cowardly,’ straightening his raven-colored suit underneath the open dark brown trench coat along with his tie and fedora. This isn’t the night to have a stroll – at least not for a man like him. He takes a turn through one of the many dirty alleyways, the pressure of each of his steps sinking him more into the sludge collecting and mixing on the ground, once in a while almost tripping over himself due to a bum leg he acquired. He found himself in front of a door, the steel rusting slowly with its exposure to the harsh elements. The man knocked once – twice – thrice until a small hatch opened up and a gruff voice spat out from it.
“Who is that? Whaddaya here for, Mister?”
“To get out of the rain,” the man replies calmly, his southern drawl a little too obvious.
A pair of eyes peers out from the hatch, scrutinizing the broken man’s appearance with a crinkle of the face, “You look like a cop– a rat! Why should I let you in?”
As the bouncer spoke the former soldier was already reaching into his coat pocket, and pulling a brown case that made the bouncer flinch.
“It’s just my cash holder,” the man interrupts the bouncer’s panic as he pulls a bill out, “ease yourself and take it so I can come inside.”
The bouncer looks at the scarred man for a moment longer before the hatch snaps shut and the locks click and clank behind the steel. With a shove the bouncer opened the steel door and the stench of smoke wafts out from behind them. The bouncer was just in suspenders and a pair of patched-up dress pants – it really exposed the twiggy, small features they have. They snatch the money rudely out of the bigger man’s hands and scan it before tucking it into their pocket.
“Don’t be any trouble,” they hiss as they step aside.
Without a muttered word, the soldierman makes his way past the bouncer and starts his way down the stairs where he can hear the sounds of trumpets and drums get louder. He can also hear the loud, boisterous laughter and chatter of all sorts of people: swingers, flappers, possible mobsters, swingers, and other nightly workers providing their services. His hand gripped more onto the railing, assisting as a support and as a relief of his tension from another clap of thunder. It smelt more like sweat now that he was deeper into the hidden bar. He could almost taste the smoke and salt on his tongue. He gently moves a curtain aside to be greeted with a claustrophobic setting with air so thick it’s difficult to take in. Great, but what did I expect? All for a drop of cheap beer, huh?
The bar happened to be the only safe spot he could find as it is the least crowded, but despite that it’s still extremely hard to breathe here. The lights were dim, and the red colors of the booths, fabrics, and more made it darker in the speakeasy. Clashing with the smoke practically made it impossible to find anyone in the mess. The man sat there on the stool like a statue – unmoving – with a glass of water for a start. His eyes stayed on the bartop; however, he would catch himself wandering his view over to the other customers of the secret bar. All walks of life were truly here for the fulfillment of their need for liquor. It’s amazing to see people sit and get along for once over a glass of whiskey or a bottle of beer.
But someone caught his interest, someone who didn’t really seem like they would be here at all. This person – this man – looked scholarly with his glasses and well-kept hair and mustache. His suit was more well-adjusted than most in the speakeasy, but the coat he wore seemed to be larger than him by a twitch. The glasses he wore were also slipping from his beak-like nose as he read from a paper he was writing on and marking up; however, he also seemed to enjoy a glass of beer with his studying. Suddenly their eyes met, but just for a moment. That moment the former soldier was able to capture everything else about the scholar’s expression: he had that dead fish stare too with the same flicker, but the flicker seemed to be greater than the stare. They were equals.
