Talent

"you can do this
you can make this happen"
she said to herself in the mirror of the toilet at the studio. a thousand others were waiting outside, but she knew she was it. she was the one who could make it. she was that one.
she fixed her make-up a bit more. she knew some people would think that maybe it was too much. too much eye colour, too many sequins on her dress. maybe it was too low cut? she didn't care what anybody thought except those three in that room. she knew she was meant to win. she knew she was put in this world by god himself to perform. to entertain. to make a difference and make people feel better.
she popped into one of the abandoned stalls and grabbed a bit more toilet paper and stuffed it down her top. she justified this to herself out loud.
"sometimes the best tasting chocolates are all the more sweeter in the most appealing wrappers."
she looked at herself in that mirror once more and told the reflection silently that she was the one. she was the one.

her number was called and the blonde presenter came to get her. the presenter was so glamourous with her smart make-up and smart looks. she took out her gum and stuck it behind her right ear. in a broad northern accent the presenter hollered out for number three-hundred and fifty-six to come over. number three-hundred and fifty-six got up and walked over with a model's posture. the presenter asked, "are we rolling?" and then her accent changed to that of an educated, but down-to-earth southerner. estury english for the masses, but not common enough to alienated any potential audience members. an increased customer base.
the contestant entered the room blushing. half from her brief stint outside on camera with the presenter, and half from the thought of meeting the judges. she smiled at them and waved hi. a feisty looking red-head cushioned between a savvy-but-aging man in black, and a round-faced potato of a man. they eyed the contenstant with a premeditated sense of suspiction, but she seemed not to notice.
"Hi, I'm Jane!"
"Hi Jane" replied the red-head with what seemed genuine, approachable friendliness. "How old are you?"
"I'm 36" said Jane
"OK, and what are you going to sing for us today?"
"I Will Survive"
"OK, go ahead"

Jane could feel her throat vibrate as she sang. she imagined she was the air dancing through her lungs, rushing around waiting to escape and make the beautiful music that everyone could hear. she imagined she was every young girl with a radio and a record player listening to her song for the first time and for the first time falling in love with something, just like she did all those years ago up in her room. she did all the moves. she sang the high notes with her eyes closed and ran her thin, stick-like fingers down the front of her face. one of her fingers garnished with a gold ring. she knew that this was the moment that would confirm her value in the world. this was it - the moment that said 'YOU are worth something'

for the second time the man in black had said "OK, thank-you". he invited the red-head to comment:
"i liked it, on a personal level. but it wasn't quite powerful enough. you don't seem to have that certain something we are looking for"
the man in black invited the potato head to comment:
"yeah, it wasn't good. there isnt any tune to your voice or pitch or much volume even"
"it was terrible" interupted the man in black. "you're lacking something - like talent. im sorry, you're not a singer. you're not what we're looking for, goodbye"
Jane had blocked it out, but she remembered the reality now. the three of them, all laughing while she was singing. the three of them, biting their lips before bursting out laughing. a nice, neat, visual soundbite before they put Jane out of her misery. easy for editing purposes later on. a laugh to put between two bland voices who just so happen to be young, fit and marketable. Jane didn't remember the taxi ride home or how she got out of the studio. she could see the episode now - the moment her eyes sunk would be recorded and repeated in slow-motion three times to some "crushed-dream music" in the editing library. she got home and wrapped up a box. she wrote a note on a little piece of paper. she looked around her appartment and saw herself reflected back. trophies from years ago - mostly second-place silver-medal things, with the odd real win scattered around - she saw her cat sitting by the window of the kitchen staring outside, wanting to get away. she saw the microwavable meal-for-one on the kitchen side. the one armchair in the sitting room. romantic weepies in the dvd stack. a knitted blanket and a huggable pillow waiting on the armchair. no sofa, no friends. only condiments in her cabinets, no real food. pictures on her wall by artists she had never heard of.
she walked into the kitchen and took something out of the cutlery drawer.

the man in black wakes up at nine-thirty. he rolls over to see another young hopeful next to him, warm and naked between his sheets. he gets up and grabs his silkly black dressing gown. he goes into his bathroom, lit by spotlights around the place so that every inch of his face is alluminated in the mirror. he plucks out a single white hair and walks out into his kitchen and pours himself a vitamin-crammed power-shake to save him eating breakfast. breakfast, for him, is a waste of time, and the time spent chewing uses up the muscles in the chin and mouth area, which could increase wrinkles and flabby skin. it's best to spend as little time possible chewing throughout the day. he uses his personal daily allowance of mouth-movements just by talking on that stupid show.
he hears the ding of his doorbell and casually walks over to his front door. his walls all bleached white, with no pictures on his wall. minimalist. only the odd black podium, each with a compact disc sitting upright on top. the reasons he is where he is. his life's work. his life living from the hand of, mainly, three albums. one, the debut of a young, sassy soul artist. at least, she was after he got one of his 'producers' on the record. live, she sounds just like every other girl who sings in the shower. then he's got the second album from some troupe of chisled irish male-models who think they can sing. what he knows, that the public of little girls dont know, is that one of them is gay, another is an ex-con, another is on the sex-offenders register and another isn't even irish; he's german.
then of course there is the novelty record. some tune that was mixed on a deck, but instead of guitars supplying the input, he hooked up 34 mobile phones and created a multi-phonic ringtone orchestra and got some sound effect to act as a vocal. the video was of a CGI duck dancing around, miming to the sound effect. in the public eye, he was a hero for this record, as it doubled as a charity single, all of the profits going to worthwhile causes. well, all the profits after some expenditure. meaning that a total of 14% of the profits went to chairty.
he got to the front door and behind it was a courier. he handed the man in black a package after he signed for it. he placed it down on the glass kitchen table and slowly opened it. the smell hit him first. he popped open the folds of the cardboard and lying inside were the four severed fingers and the single, bloodied thumb. thin and stick-like, the dark-red stumps had a few wrinkles on them, and one of them was wearing a gold ring. the man in black was shaking all over. everything rushed into his head - what does this mean? is someone going to kill me? will i get tortured? do they want my money? what will the papers say?
he noticed a small card inside. he reached in, shakingly avoiding the fingers, and pulled out the card. it read, in neat almost child-like writing:
"you did this
you made this happen"

You've Got Mail

it came in the post this morning.
the brown parcel tape looked old and dirty. there were stamps all over it in languages that didn't look like languages. addresses were covered up by addresses which covered addresses. an endless record of the journey of this box. there was no return address on it, just some printed white paper that had been taped over some other address. printed with my address and my name. my house.
what if it was a bomb? what if it was a severed head? i've seen the movies and i've read the papers. i know what happens. i know about things like this. i took a small but sharp knife from my kitchen and gently pierced the tape. i ran the blade down the box and i could almost see the dust float out from the open wound i had just cut. like time escaping.
i opened the two flaps with hesitance. i was expecting a never ending darkness. an abyss or a mystery. because this is such a random thing, whatever i could create in my head would always be six million miles from what is. i smell all the places the box has been. as if all these cultures and languages and sights and smells have all just disappeared up my nose and into my body. pearing out of the box is something black. it's a camera. one of those old polaroid ones, that print them there and then. it looks quite old. i take it out, examine it a little, and turn my attention to the book that was beneath it. cast in a deep red leather bind, the book is dusty and looks quite old. i lift it out, blow off the dust, watch what could be part of the sahara or bondi beach float away, and open it. the front pages tells me that this box is a well travelled box. it will have been all around the world and each time you recieve it, you must take a photo of yourself, stick it in the book and write a message. a message to the world. then pack it all up and send it to someone far away. either someone you know, or get an address at random, just dont put in a wrong address because the postal service will take it away and destroy it.
inside the book i can see men, women, black and white, rich and poor. families. couples. singles. men with dogs, women with cats, adults with their kids, with their parents, with their friends. each of them with a message.
Laura is 34 and says hello to everybody out there.
Seth is 17 and wishes for world peace.
Julie and Gordon both love their kids.
Andrea and Micheal both love God.
Phillip wants to wish good health to the world.
Alex wants to know if anyone can send him some spare cash.
and then i turn the page. Erin has a shaven head. She has big, soup dish eyes, and a small thin smile. her head is one colour and one tone. the smile in the picture looks terribly forced. below it is the simple line, "i want everyone to be happy".
i noticed that the picture is slightly raised. i pick at the side of the polaroid and it comes loose. taped behind the picture are a few more. It's Erin. she has an expression of immeasurable sadness painted on her and the glaring white in her eyes contrasts with the bluey purple bruises all over her body. on the little white strip on each polaroid she has written a little note.
"this made my daddy happy"
"this made my boyfriend happy"
"this made my mummy happy"
"i just want everyone to be happy"
"i'm not allowed to tell anyone because it will make everyone sad"
"i just want to keep everyone happy"

i hold the camera at arms length.
i glue my photograph on the next page. i surround it with all the photographs of Erin. all the slices of life. the snapshot of Erin brusied. the snapshot of Erin cut, bleeding, sobbing, hurting. the snapshot of me, the camera at arms length, tears streaming down my face. all i write on my page is "I want everyone to know what's really happening". and i tape it back up and i send it on.
i'm not going to let people get away with these sort of things anylonger.
i'm not going to keep everyone happy.

Clear Out

i was looking around in my attic today. searching for some spare junk to sell to raise money to buy new things that can be someone else's junk someday. i found this dirty old chest. this is my parents house - these must be family things. family junk - priceless.
unfortunatly, not the good kind of priceless. i open the elephantine box of wonders and shake the hand of a cloud of dust. from the smell i would have said it was centuries old. from the taste i would have said it has been collected from many places. a dust cocktail of the ages. not a nice way to clear out the airways inside me.
when the cloud dispells into the ether, all i see is a red velvet blanket. i reach out to remove it and with i whip away i uncover a collection of old, almost rusting, human remains. skeletal evidence. bones. of course, you can imagine my shock. beside the bones was a torn letter, an old gun that looked like it would disintergrate upon touch, and a golden locket. i picked up the torn paper and read it. it was part of a letter...

the little boy saw you resting on the lips of another in the woods today, girl. you covet these pictures of the blue-eyed boy but you seem to only have eyes of the fair-haired man. the pictures of your proposed love have golden frames that seem chipped and dusty - is that him now inside yourself? you say you love him but you dry your lips on another now, girl. well if your lips have dried up, so has your heart, for any young girl who can switch from one to another so quick must have a heart of centuries past - withered like a body in the ground. eaten by maggots and dead from the lost desire to be held by someone with hands worthy of touching such a vibrant and exclusive being. you seem to have forgotten everything that is real in your wanting for something new and quick and fast and fake.
you remember when you danced all night now girl? well now you dance alone.
all that was so real - gone and dead and vanished with the wind. blown away and starting to decay. a stain on a jacket of the forgotten.
don't rely on me to help you out this time girl. no one will ever know your name.
don't rely on me to fix this one for you girl. no - you will never love again.
you will never love again.

i popped open the golden locket and inside was a picture of a man and of a woman. the picture was either an old painting or one of the early photographs that were so archaic that they looked like paintings. i suspect the bones belonged to a young woman. i sat there and sighed for a moment. the kettle downstairs was whistling.

Followed

I could almost feel him following me. His steps were mirroring my own with a precise accuracy that had my paranoia not reached an inferno i would not have normally noticed him trailing me. The dark dismal streets of this damp and deserted city add an overall feeling to the pursuit that does not shine well with my inner calm. As my mind rolls over on these self-indulgent issues i forget to make a plan of action. The strangers of these streets are slowly disappearing, therefore, as are my chances of avoiding a confrontation. I take a sharp left turn into an even darker alley way. Before my follower can get to the alley, i run with a silent step down to the dumpster at the bottom of this wet path. As i crouch behind this smelly plastic bin all i can hear is the drip, drip, drip of the nights rain on the small puddles created in this bleak street and of course the tap, tap, tap rythmn of my watcher's step. The constant, unwaivering beat of my heart keeping time with the constant, unwaivering beat of his pursuit. I reach into my pocket and ready my pistol for action. I can hear the steps getting louder, getting closer. Closer to death? I hope not. I sit with my eyes closed, talking to God in my head, asking him to sit this one out as i attempt to do what i thought i would never have to face. I can't take this any longer and i burst out from the behind the dumpster and push my pistol-weilding arm out into the air, into the action, ready to defend myself against my punisher. But all i see is nothing. As i lower my aim from nothingness to my side, i wonder - how thin is the line between paranoia and reality? How will i know what is true, and what is fake? What is the difference between the murderous, evil mind of my followers and that of my own bruised and fragile mind?

She's

she's got a slight tan on her skin. not much, just a little bit. and it's kind of patchy too. her face is white. it's got the odd freckle or whatever it is - i dont know the technically terms. her eyes are big. they always seem to be staring, or thinking, or something. the black holes in the middle infuse with the glowing green that make her eyes stand out so very brightly. her cheeks pad her face out a little bit to give it shape, and not skinny and vaccum-packed like the cheeks of a model. those kind always strike me as very medicinal and produced. like food thats vaccum-packed in supermarkets. her hair is straight, kind of long, but not huge. i suspect that her hair would look just as good short as it would at this length. it's kind of red, orange, yellow and brown all mixed together. her hair is autumn. it smells of exotic fruits and hidden flowers. it goes well with her face, which has blood in it. life in the cheeks rather than plastered white lifeless and dead.
she's so beautiful. she's hit me like an atom bomb. she's so perfect. she's not real. she doesnt exist.
when she speaks she always has something intelligent or funny to say. she's got opinions, but she accepts other points of view. she's very emphatic. i dont even know what that means, she just is. her laugh sounds like that sound you get in spring time when every bird is singing and every bee is buzzing and even when you're alone you can sense life everywhere. just the aura of being, in every insect, in every flower, in every breath, in every step. and her voice is just as magnificent. when she's happy, she smiles, but doesnt let it show. like a little chesire cat, she hides her chin away and looks up at you, with those eyes. those eyes. that stare. just her, being her, becoming everything.
she's got excellent taste in music, film, food, drink, everything. but none of that matters, because she's so open that she'll try anything, just for the buzz of doing it. she likes nature and the country, but cant stand being away from the city for a huge amount of time. her heart is with the busy buzzing life that you get in a city or large town. she knows how to relax and how to unwind. she's never angry - only passionate. she's too, i dont know, wise. yes, too wise to be angry. she knows it doesnt matter enough to get worked up over - whatever 'it' may be.
she is all anyone with any sense could ever want.
why is she still alone?

It's Cold Outside

i keep thinking about what's outside.
it gets cold in the winter so i climb in through the bedroom windows of some stranger's house. you would have thought the people inside wouldn't have minded so much - i don't take up much space and, sure, they might be a little scared because they don't know who i am, but thats no reason for them to beat me half to death and leave me outside dying, crying and ready for the big freeze. it's almost christmas.
it doesnt stop me from climbing into peoples houses though. sometimes i can stay there for days on end without being found. sometimes the owners don't beat me so much, they just shoo me away. especially the old ones. they dont have the energy to beat me. i mean, sure i make the kids cry a bit. but it's so cold outside. it's so cold.
my arms are hairy but it doesn't keep me warm. i don't have any clothes either. that might be why they object so much. i suppose they dont get many naked hairy things crawl through their windows into their houses at night time. maybe thats why that child that time was crying so much. i dont like to hear the children cry.
once they put me in this trap. this big glass cage thing, and it picked me up and threw me around a bit. i thought it was the police or something, and i thought, great! now i can have a nice warm cell. but no. the bastards threw me out of their window. the human race can be so evil sometimes. so cruel. so cold. it's always so cold.
i wish i could go somewhere peaceful. somewhere safe. where everybody knows who i am and they dont care what i look like. they dont care about this disfigurement. they dont care - they accept. heaven. warm, toasty heaven.
it ain't easy having eight legs.

Missing

I drive every day from the office. Through rush hour traffic across town and i make it here just in time to see you before those nurses turn me away. Some nights i don't make it in for a chat, but i see you through the window and i wave. I know you can't see it, but i wave anyway.
It's been almost a month now since you had the attack. Why you never told me you had it before i don't know. Arterio-Venous Malformation, or AVM for short, is a build up of blood in the brain. People can go their whole life without even knowing they have it. You had a seizure and fell from a ladder. Now you're a radish and have been for a month. They have no idea what to do, and neither do i. And i knew that you would be as beautiful as your are kicking when you're comatose.
You're so still, proped up in your bed like a stuffed doll. Your hair is perfectly in place. Dark tones of black mixed with a slightly purple-plum. Your eyes were closed by the nurse when you came in because when you fell you had your eyes open. You always knew what you were going in for, even when you didn't have a clue. But now when they're closed it just reminds me how closer to death you are. Part of me wants to get hit by a bus on my way out of this hospital just so i can beat you into death. So i can sit there at the finishing line laughing. I miss our little games. I miss you.
Your smell and your touch. Your gentle voice quivering in the air like a reed in the bush. Your fingertips running over my skin when we made love and your smile waking me up in the mornings. I miss you.
I play the records we used to share and the tears from them send me to sleep at night. It's the only thing that does. An image of you is plastered on the inside of my eyelids. Life without you is no life at all. So i rush over from the otherside of town everynight and i talk to you. I talk myself to sleep sometimes and those nurses wake me up and send me home. When will you come home with me?

True Beauty

You flick the switch and on comes the bulb. You sit right down in front of the mirror. The light hanging above reflects on the surface and then back at your face. You squint a little until you find a comfortable spot on the little chair. You open the little black box that's locked in the top drawer. You look at yourself and you huff. Your chin clean shaven. The light is glowing from behind your bald head. Your blue eyes staring at someone else's blue eyes. You're staring at a stranger.
You apply the mascara onto your eyelashes. You're doing it with such precise accordance that you could have easily been doing them one by one. After you've counted your eyelashes in the mirror, you put on the smallest amount of eyeliner. Just enough to mount your bright blue eyes, not so much that it makes you look like a whore. You get out the blusher and you put a small breath of life back into the milky-white cancer-paitent cheeks that go so well with the ghostly complexion of your whole head.
You kiss the air and apply some red lipstick. Holding your pose just long enough for the paint to dry, and then you relax and smile at the mirror. You're halfway there. You open up another box from another locked drawer and you clip on your earrings. You slide on your ring. You go over to the cupboard. Inside is a white mannequin's head. You bring it over and in front of the mirror you slide on your autumn-red wig. Already brushed and ready for the world it will never see. You look at yourself in the mirror and you know you look beautiful. You know you do, and you know that only you will ever know it.
You play with the polaroid camera for a little while. You shake the little square in the air and examine for a second. You still find it funny how this little stolen image will always be more real that anything anyone could ever see with their eyes. You sit down in your chair with a glass of white wine. Curtains drawn and front doors locked. You dance with yourself to the music on the record player. Dancing alone in the middle of the room. You spill the wine as you glide through the air but in your mind your in some huge palace at a grand gala ball and everyone is looking at you. And everyone is thinking how beautiful you are. Everyone knows how beautiful you are.
And your eyes open as the needle skips the disc on the player. You fall back into your chair, take another sip of wine, and fall asleep. You know how in the morning it's back to slacks and ties and reality. No one will ever know how beautiful you are.

Here comes the breeze

Jingly.
Jangly.
Fun, happy times.
The paid fool will dance about at his hourly rate. Keeps the nippers entertained while the dads discuss golf and the mums get acceptably drunk. The kids are laughing at him. They pull on his clothes and his hair and his nose and his skin and they rip and they punch and they kick and he screams. And they stop.
He screams, they stop, they're all watching him. Watching him stand there, motionless. They watch him as he falls to the ground, falls to his knees, back onto his heals, out comes his legs and he's sat there against the wall. Eyes still. Arms by his sides. Sitting there, muscles dead. His white makeup runs down his left cheek as one tear falls from one eye, into his lap and out into the world.

He only took on this job because he did drama at school once. And that was just to get out of geography. His wife needs medical care and he needs the money. Her income is gone, he's got little kids at home, she needs all these drugs and operations and he needs to pay. His dad got rushed to hospital this morning. He had a stroke. He's got to feed the kids. He's got to pay for the dog's vet bill. He's got to pick up his wife from the ward. Cancer is a horrible disease. He keeps getting the image of his dad in the home. Drool slowly drips from the side of his jaw as he pisses himself for the fifth time that morning. Vegetation is a word that springs to mind. His dad will never remember the times they used to play catch in the summer. Every time he see's his dad, that memory will die a little. Every time he see's his dad, his dad will die a little.

He's in the car going to this kid's party. Some rich kid in the suburbs. His own are at his wife's mothers. She hates him. His wife is having an operation and he can't afford to miss this gig and be with her when she wakes up. His dad's status isn't getting any better. He had to wash his shirt this morning because it was soaked in his brother's tears from when he held him last night. He came to the door not knowing what to do. Neither of them knew what to do. He takes a left in his car. His suit is uncomfortable to drive in. His make up is rushed because he had to tidy the kid's rooms before he left the house. He finds this rich house with it's big glass windows and huge colourful happy birthday banner. He drops his cigarette on the ground and stubs it out with his over-sized novelty red clown shoes. "Let's get this over with" he says to himself. To the ghosts that surround him.

And as he sits there on the floor against the wall, his makeup running down one side of his face from comatose tears, he thinks to himself: "What a wonderful world"

Coffehouse

I can feel the hairs tickling the back of my neck.
It's a horrible feeling, like spiders are itching to get all over you and eat at your skin. I'm waiting for her to arrive. I feel like every movie cliché. All i need now is a little bead of sweat to drip down the side of my head.
Here she comes. There she goes. She has arrived and i have no idea what i'm going to do. Breathe. Be calm. I stand.
"Hi. Hi there."
"Hey - how are you?"
We sit. "I'm good, you know - still here! ha-ha!"
"Yeh, same." We share a moment of nervous, forced laughter. I hope she feels as awkward as i do. "So, i got your note"
Well she just gets right on in there, doesn't she? "Oh - yeh, i'm sorry about that. I was just being me."
"Look - i'm sorry. You're a great guy and everything, and i'd love to, but not now. I dunno, I'm sorry. I know this doesn't make any sense to you. I'm so rubbish at these things"
What was i going to expect? To be serious, i would suspect some kind of evil trick even if this turned out how i dreamt. She doesn't know that i have felt this way pretty much since we met, and i don't know that these feelings are probably just the foundations of a strong strong friendship, and i don't know this because i have never even been close to something like this.
I just don't do friends. I need friends, and i like conversation, and i'm shit at loneliness, but it just finds me. This is real - this friendship. And if it were to shatter, i would shatter. If it were to end, i would end. If it were to die - i would end.
If i were to lose this, i would never be able to lift myself out of nothingness.
I will be on drugs all my life, just like my friends are now, all anti-depressives fed to them by mothers who can't be bothered to try a bit of parenting. If i lose this - i will be lost.
We have been looking at each other in silence for a while now. Her waiting for the emotional waterfall she expects from such a soppy fool, Me emotionless, thinking what i have been thinking.
I lean over the table, i pick up her chin with my thumb and forefinger, i tilt slightly to the side and i kiss her.
I don't fall back to my seat, i start to get up. I leave the coffehouse with a smile on my face because i know what this really is. I know how i feel and i know that it is for me. It's what you love, not what loves you - that's what matters. I leave knowing it'll all be OK. I hope she knows too.
It's not the kind of thing you can explain to a person, but those people who talk everyday, no matter what happens, every single day, and make sure the other is OK - that's what i want.
Those people who have two different bodies, but really share the same mind - that's what i want.
Those people who put each other as Number One, no matter what - that's what i want.

Only love can break your heart.