Not so post modern.

So another day filled with work and the preparation for work. (Don't expect a reprieve tomorrow, I'm doing a 9-1). Still in it I watched a very, very gooey episode of the X-files (2Shy, season 3) and managed to get in a chain fiction post (My character gets all post modern as he complains about coincidences and Deus ex Machina, but in fairness everyone else's character had already done so, so perhaps it was a bit too "post" and not quite "modern" enough). That's about it to be honest, so I guess I'll discuss soemthing else for the rest of this update.

-Asks flatmate for topic-

-Flatmate replies with "Thursday afternoons"-

-Ignores flatmate-

So. Well I did have a super-short story idea to write. Maybe I'll write it here. Oooh it's almost like writing a chain fiction post.

Holy War

They had fought in countless cities across the millennia. The granite tenement walls that framed the alleyway and the shadows of spires, turrets and domes that stretched between the gloomy orange lamplight made this as suitable a setting as any of the others. Not as Gothic as Prague of course, nor as symbolic as Jerusalem, but fitting enough.
Lucifer stood at one end of the alley, his sillhouette tapering out towards Michael, their eyes locked, arc sodium light glinting within like daggers.
As, always, it was Lucifer who made the first move, bounding up the alleway, claws ready to strike into Michael's soft flesh, but, as always, Michael was ready.
The sound of their battling could be heard up and down the street.
In number 34, the noise awoke Mrs. J. Masson from her light slumber next to her comatose husband. Careful not to wake him up somehow, she climbed out of bed and made her way to the window which looked down on the alley. She opened it up, stuck her head out into the bitter chill of night and then, turning towards the warring angels half screeched, half whispered,
"Get away you noisy beasts! Go, on scat!"
She waved her arms emphatically and Michael, who had his blades buried in Lucifer's side, turned and looked up at her, quizically.
"You heard me! People want their sleep!"
And then the injured white rolled out of the black's grasp and ran off into the night.
It always turned out that way.

Go on, humour me.