Nowhere Kids

Graffiti

Kendall Park; Merdithvale, 1986.

'Living in desolation,

Yet running fast as hell.

We are the Nowhere Kids.'

The blood-red graffiti stands stark against the grey concrete wall, almost glowing in the fading afternoon light. Nobody who walks by could really say where it came from, when it appeared, or who could possibly have written it. It is a part of the city, a constant that has been there since before any of its residents can remember. There once was a petition circulating through the older citizens of Merdithvale, but it dwindled out before it had come to any kind of fruition. It's just left as it is, and visitors foreign enough to ask about it are rewarded with an answer of; "it's just the Wall. Don't worry about it."

Quite unsatisfying, but there you go.

Klaus Jurgamen grew up with the Wall and its associated graffiti, and so has never thought it odd that his city has a piece of street-art that could possibly be older than the human race itself. It's just a normal part of life for him, not something he thinks about often - if at all. It serves no purpose to him beyond being a marker to the shadier part of the city - which, to be perfectly blunt, is also most of the city. There are a few alleys and walkways set aside by the town council as street-art areas - an attempt to promote new avenues in art and to keep hooligans from spraying every other building - but these are filled mainly with professional pieces, nothing so pure and as much a part of the city as the Nowhere Kids Wall.

Klaus pays more attention to the works of K.A.T., the free-wheeling rebel amongst rebels, renowned throughout Merdithvale for their 'cooler-than-thou' attitude. Nobody knows who K.A.T. is, except K.A.T. themselves - nobody even knows whether they are male or female, although conventional logic dictates that they're more likely male. K.A.T.'s work is phenomenal, and Klaus is enraptured. He stands before one of K.A.T.'s works now - a massive mural depicting a skull motif and a recurring image of a Celtic cross. It speaks to him - hell, it speaks to everyone. But Klaus could stand in that exact spot, just staring up at the strokes and splotches of airbrushed paint, losing himself in its message - and the illegality of it. He could never do anything so intense, so bad - not him, not goody-two-shoes Klaus Jurgamen. It's beyond him, but he admires it so damn much.

----

"You just have to get yourself back into the swing of things."

Jimmy Amani sits upside-down on the park bench, legs slung over the backrest and head dangling, over the edge of the seat. Beside him lolls the vacant-eyed body of Klaus, Aussie born-and-bred.

"It's not that hard to get un-blocked, man," Jimmy continues, kicking his legs.

"You don't get it," Klaus sighs, dropping his skull onto the back of the bench - hard. He sucks in a breath and rubs his head, muttering curses. "It's - ow - it's not as easy as you'd think," he adds through his teeth.

"Oh, isn't it? Well, what would I know? I'm just a journalist."

"It's not the same."

"Yeah, whatever. You just sit there in all your art blocked glory and do absolutely shit-all about it," Jimmy sighs, staring across the path at an upside-down swing set. He takes a swig from the glass bottle of Coca-Cola on the ground beside his head. "You whine too much."

"Coming from the guy who spent two weeks lying on my bed - literally crying - because some chick you'd been with for a month dumped you," Klaus replies, smirking.

"Fuck off, you prat. It was two months and I loved her," Jimmy growls in response, punching Klaus' arm. Klaus abandons his head to rub his now sore shoulder. "Ow! Hello?"