On Day 2 of NaPoWriMo, the site offered a mythological prompt. As I have Scandinavian heritage I decided I'd look up a few Norse myths and modernise one that caught my eye.
The Norse battleground of Manchester's Market St,
steaming with the breath of a thousand consumer warriors.
Heimdallr swaggers, swigs Jim Beam and honey, sways.
Scarf-less, he bears his name, calligraphic on his neck
and grabs his crotch, taunting Loki
a rival gang hoodrat.
Heimdallr's quest: the retrieval of stolen treasures-
the Elizabeth Duke chain around Loki's neck.
Under the Arndale Food Court,
a burning bridge of neon and junk food,
the two soldiers face off.
Loki walks into his trap.
Heimdallr, gold teeth blinding his opponent,
Stepmums: 9, real mum: unknown,
throws down his hoodie to the floor of the cobbled arena.
They charge, warring, medallion fisted.
As Loki swings, Heimdallr morphs,
fattens, slumps. He is a seal. A seal.
The shoppers stop and gaze. The buskers cease their strumming.
Even the mime artists break their pose.
Heimdallr's teeth dig into Loki's tail,
who in turn swings, bludgeoning,
spraying blood over the Three store's mobile broadband deals.
The shoppers- the chav paparazzi- stop and huddle,
phones raised like swords before battle.
The sex-starved bible preachers finally fall silent,
PCSOs clutch their shoulder radios, but relay no messages.
Heimdallr stumbles, reaches for stability,
clutches the chain from Loki's neck and snaps it off,
severing an artery.
The entrance to Boots: spattered in Norse blood,
an arc of red whipping over the accident claims salesmen,
finally silencing them.
With his last heartbeat, Heimdallr lunges,
falls on Loki, mouth first, his broad shoulders
weighing in behind his teeth, rupturing his Nordic throat.
And as their spirits rise over the blocky Viking settlement of Manchester,
This tale will not be held in ancient Nordic scriptures,
not stored behind glass on frayed excavated canvas,
but in the news feeds of a million Facebook accounts,
an eight-figure-view Youtube video,