JesterTagz
The Trickster
Dark clouds had taken over the New Calydon skyline, and were hovering so low over the city one would have thought they were about to swallow the run down buildings.
A heavy rain was falling over the sun bleached streets, washing away the sorrow and misery which seemed to have built up over the long summer weeks. Huge, heavy droplets were falling down from the heavens and then bouncing back up, much to the delight of tired parents and hurrying drivers. In the distance, cars were speaking in their strange honking language, a mixture of racist slurs and curses floating around the city along with the water. The screeching wail of an ambulance could be heard over the traffic as the lumbering shape advanced as quickly as it could.
But all that chaos was outside, and a pane of glass three inches thick kept Jax and the other customers around him dry and warm. It was a cute little place our favorite graffiti artist had decided to spend his time in. Chipped golden letters spelled out “Paris on a Platte’ in an elegant curling script right on the ancient door of the coffee shop. Wherever one looked, they could see exposed red bricks and unstable shelves lined with books forgotten by time. Dune, an entire collection of mismatched Jules Verne, War of The Worlds, iRobot, and 1984 could all be found there, joined by the occasional D&D figurine and a dusty set of dice. Overtop that, the smell off coffee seemed to have replaced the air inside the two rooms which made up the shop. ‘Rocketman' was playing softly in the background, getting early drowned out by the murmur of the other customers. It was nice. Jackson loved the way he could close his eyes and still sense the people around him, hear them talking and breathing.
In the hours of the night where only the dim orange light from street lamps kept him company, Jax could feel the loneliness pressing down on his chest, closing around his throat like a great clawed hand. It was something his younger self had never thought he’d have to concern himself with. But regardless of his thoughts on the subject, the pesky feelings showed up anyway, every time he closed his eyes or it got too quiet.
So there he was, with his knee propped up against the rickety table and a sketchbook balanced on said knee, headphones curled up around his neck like a kitten, an icecap in front of him. He was sketching one of the teenagers across the room, pencil moving with quick, messy movements across the already pretty full page of his blackbook. She was a lost looking girl with raccoon style makeup around her eye, hair so orange one would have confused it with a fruit, and a skirt short enough to give her mother a heart attack. The fishnets she had under the skirt didn’t exactly remedy the situation.
No matter what Jax tried to convince anybody, he himself hadn’t really grown out of that phase. He may have been sixty years old, but he looked and felt twenty, so he would dress like it. Perfectly done black nail polish which had inspired many snickers and interesting comments, black hair which he’d tied up in a man bun because of the heat and tattoos covering him from neck to ankle. The black eyeliner which rimmed his icy blue eyes and a leather jacket which has certainly seen better days completed the look. In short, Jax looked like your every day delinquent.
Our warlock was at his everyday spot, nodding his head to the music and sketching a stranger, taking the occasional distracted sip out of his melting ice cap.
A heavy rain was falling over the sun bleached streets, washing away the sorrow and misery which seemed to have built up over the long summer weeks. Huge, heavy droplets were falling down from the heavens and then bouncing back up, much to the delight of tired parents and hurrying drivers. In the distance, cars were speaking in their strange honking language, a mixture of racist slurs and curses floating around the city along with the water. The screeching wail of an ambulance could be heard over the traffic as the lumbering shape advanced as quickly as it could.
But all that chaos was outside, and a pane of glass three inches thick kept Jax and the other customers around him dry and warm. It was a cute little place our favorite graffiti artist had decided to spend his time in. Chipped golden letters spelled out “Paris on a Platte’ in an elegant curling script right on the ancient door of the coffee shop. Wherever one looked, they could see exposed red bricks and unstable shelves lined with books forgotten by time. Dune, an entire collection of mismatched Jules Verne, War of The Worlds, iRobot, and 1984 could all be found there, joined by the occasional D&D figurine and a dusty set of dice. Overtop that, the smell off coffee seemed to have replaced the air inside the two rooms which made up the shop. ‘Rocketman' was playing softly in the background, getting early drowned out by the murmur of the other customers. It was nice. Jackson loved the way he could close his eyes and still sense the people around him, hear them talking and breathing.
In the hours of the night where only the dim orange light from street lamps kept him company, Jax could feel the loneliness pressing down on his chest, closing around his throat like a great clawed hand. It was something his younger self had never thought he’d have to concern himself with. But regardless of his thoughts on the subject, the pesky feelings showed up anyway, every time he closed his eyes or it got too quiet.
So there he was, with his knee propped up against the rickety table and a sketchbook balanced on said knee, headphones curled up around his neck like a kitten, an icecap in front of him. He was sketching one of the teenagers across the room, pencil moving with quick, messy movements across the already pretty full page of his blackbook. She was a lost looking girl with raccoon style makeup around her eye, hair so orange one would have confused it with a fruit, and a skirt short enough to give her mother a heart attack. The fishnets she had under the skirt didn’t exactly remedy the situation.
No matter what Jax tried to convince anybody, he himself hadn’t really grown out of that phase. He may have been sixty years old, but he looked and felt twenty, so he would dress like it. Perfectly done black nail polish which had inspired many snickers and interesting comments, black hair which he’d tied up in a man bun because of the heat and tattoos covering him from neck to ankle. The black eyeliner which rimmed his icy blue eyes and a leather jacket which has certainly seen better days completed the look. In short, Jax looked like your every day delinquent.
Our warlock was at his everyday spot, nodding his head to the music and sketching a stranger, taking the occasional distracted sip out of his melting ice cap.
