cycle fuck

Sitting relaxed, double espresso in cup and saucer minimalist white smoke, hint of dirty yellow, rising from half enjoyed cigarette held in hand hung over arm of metal tubed ? perfect circles punched in back ? chair. Flick. Ash drops on black tarmac.
People walk past. Cute girls in denim; slim office women in smart casuals; naturalistic faces partnered with over painted faceless friends. Modern with impressionist.
Eyes linger. Sly smile mixed amongst the stubble - tri-coloured: brown fading to blonde tinged with red / orange. Hand strokes chin. Rasp over flesh.
Need a shave.
Need a shower.
Body with dried sweat stained clothes - black faded V-necked t-shirt; pre-faded, shop worn, dark blue jeans; scuffed, rubber sole worn black boots.
Relaxed.
Drink coffee.
Smoke cigarette.
Think. Watch. Finish. Pay.

Walking towards bike racks, slipping on Sony street-style headphones, black band wrapped behind dirty blonde unwashed wavy hair. Street smart styled urbanite ? self stayed image in the mirror. Cool.

Unlocks bike. Slips onto saddle.
Raise pedal. Push Play. Off.

Buffalo Tom - 'Taillights Fade':

Start slow. Perfect mood. Black coffee, waiting for an adrenaline charge - espresso up, nicotine down. Glide along the road. Slow. Relaxed. Curve round round-a-bout. Song smooth along a perfect feeling. At one with the surroundings. Cruising. Stop at lights.
Wait.
Car in front - impatient tie restricted white shirted collar, tight, late, over ran lunch break.
Car behind - briefly glimpsed, green metallic, waiting, at rest.
Red. Yellow.

BloodHound Gang - 'I Hope You Die':

Green.
Die. Die. Die.
Guitars clash. Punk pop clash. Foot push harder on pedals. Gear change. Fast. Faster. Lean round corner. Car overtakes, too fast. Straight. Gear change. Off. Short speed hill go pumping muscle sweat heat feel thrust adrenaline music pumping surround sound brain waves hands clasped sweat hot heat pumping blood racing legs aching organic muscle man cycle one connected flowing no sound no bike no man hybrid machine muscle music mind pumped faster harder pushing popping yes yes hill. Release.
Free wheel. Wind cool. Incline, rise up and up and up, slow. Traffic lights ahead on red. Incline straightening. Slight effort, push forward until... Down down down. Auto speed. Fingers caress brakes, ready to press. Ease. Slow...slow...stop...wait... Ready.
Red. Yellow. Green
Go.

Moloko - 'The Time Is Now':

Sony MiniDisc skips a beat, auto-shock-absorber takes the jolt. Music restarts. More lights. Turning green in the distance. Pushing pedals again. No gear change, too close.
Can make the lights.
Will make the lights.
Normally do... Almost...
Yellow. Red.
Brakes slammed, still moving over white line. Stop. Rest on street corner, traffic passing in front.
Adrenalised. Sweating. Dirty. Stubble itching.
Need a shave, shower. Want to get home.
Hyped up. Mind whirling.
Need to calm down.. relax..
Cool. Shower, feel the water... Eyes on lights.
Red. Yellow?

AC/DC - 'You Shook Me All Night Long':

Attitude in ears. Green.
Off shot out machine muscle straight. Another hill. Pushing pumping sweating.
Mind on shower. Relax under water, soaked, rivulets over flesh, softening. Hardening. Thinking. Hard to concentrate. Mind flashing, ideas, and thoughts. Must. Concentrate.
Fantasy.
Two girls.
Sofa.
One girl straddling you. Kissing tongue flicking inside your mouth. Sense movement. Open eyes. You see other girl, naked, feminine hands snake round to clasp female flesh, and fingers caress nipples hard.
Music pumping. Flesh responding. Faster.
Stripped of skin, flesh, bone, and sinew.
Stroking. Rubbing.
Harder faster.
Faster harder.
Round final corner legs screaming for release up down up down.
Keep mind steady. Nearly there, lips open, gasp.
Stinging sweat eyes.
Just. A. Bit. More.
Yes.
Y-e-s.
Jesus.
A.
Bit.
More.
Yes. Yes. Jesus. Christ.
Dull ache.
Grind.
Stop. Relax. Sweat.
Scream shout in mind.
Breathe out, release. Finish. Home.
Relaxed.

#  top

unhealthy desires

If hell is other people then what is heaven?

I pop another capsule into my mouth. Feel it against my tongue, allowing it to rest there, in limbo, in stasis, the bitter taste seeping from it a minor irritation. I can feel it dissolving, fizzy on the muscle, my own saliva breaking it down, allowing it to seep, dissolve into me. I think I can feel it. Feel the essence breaking into my body, violating me. I want to scream.
I've been here before going round in circles.
Was this the seventh revolution of my wheel?
Each time I try to find another way to keep going. To prolong this time above all other times. Not wait for it to end, a passive observer, watching the body go through the motions, waiting. Waiting for the end. I want to stop continuing from the beginning. No continuation. A soap which finishes. Stop. Dead. Silence.
I was told the pills would help. Although they are not really pills. Not drugs. No prescription needed. No identification. No one asking questions. 'Stay healthy', they say. Don't drink. Don't smoke. Don't eat. Where is the enjoyment?
I swallow. Is this is?
Will this help me? How much longer do I need to keep this up?
The rest of your life.
If I don't go outside. If I don't go for a walk. If I stay in one place. Barricade myself in, don't let anything or one through. Isolate myself. Keep myself clean. Away from others. One room, all I really need. Keep it clean. Tidy. Occupy my days with myself. Clean. Tidy. Pills. No contact. Nothing human, animal, vegetable or mineral. If I stay like this will the circle split, break, shatter, release me. Allow me to break free. To fly. Or will I join another circle. Stay trapped. A prisoner of my own mortality.
I desire not to be mortal.
I have realised what happens.
We are all mortal. But only in each lifetime. I keep coming back and I am sure others come with me. People I have known. Past lives. Past faces. Conversations repeated throughout eternity. Meeting the same people over and over, a constant carousel which will not stop. Fall in love with the same woman. Different face, same soul. Have the same children, same problems. I desire for this to stop. To prolong my fate. To stay alive. I know where this is going and how it ends. Death is not the solution. No cut wrists or overdoses. Life is the answer. Life over death. Death before life. I want to find the proverbial heaven on Earth.
If hell is other people then is heaven an enclosed room?
A solitary existence. Hermitude. A slave of one. No end in sight.

I want to scream.

#  top

psychometry

psy-chom-e-try - The ability or art of divining information about people or events associated with an object solely by touching or being near to it.

--

clickety clack
clickety clack

Warmth in the darkness. Closeness. Together.

clickety clack
clickety clack

Breathing. Someone crying.

clickety clack
clickety clack

Movement. Feeling of motion. Swaying and slowing down.

clickety clack

~

The door slid open, the light from a weak winters day illuminated the inside of the railway car. A few people shielded their eyes from the rays. Others raised their heads, trying to peer outside, wanting to know where they had stopped. A few flakes of snow drifted down from the sky, quiet and peaceful. The sound of other doors opening reached their ears. A harsh grating, sliding sound, as though they weren't used to being moved. Ordered shouts were heard. The slow movement of people shifting, trying to dislodge cramp and fear. The sound of boots on hard-packed snow. Crunching. Nearing the car. People held each other, fingers digging into numbed flesh. No one winced.

~

She sat where she'd slipped. Eyes open. Staring. She held, gripped, the rusting metal - an electric hold. Knuckles going white.
She was beautiful. Blonde hair fell to her shoulders, it had spread out as she went down as though trying to slow her descent. It was difficult not to look at her. She held you in her gaze. Others were looking. The few people who still worked here, a minor train station where backpackers stopped off, waiting for the continuation of a journey. A few people approached her. Asked her if she was alright. Mostly American. She hadn't answered even though her lips appeared to be moving.
When she'd gone down there been no noise from her. No scream. No cry of surprise. A slight crump as her arse hit the pock marked cement of the platform. Instinctively, as she fell, her arms had gone out, hands grabbing for something to hold onto. Her right hand scraped the wall, fingers curling over the lip of the bucket. Hold. Held. Pulled it away from the wall, the bent nail slipped easily from the crumbling brick. A slight metallic ding as it hit the surface next to her, a few seconds after she'd, jarringly, stopped moving.
She appeared to be alone. You could tell some of the younger men, leaving oversized rucksacks leaning against the walls, still carrying their bottles of beer, laughing as they approached her, were only being helpful because she was attractive, a quiet beauty.
What could they get from her misfortune?
A few of the older women looked on from the benches. Were they waiting to leave or expecting an arrival? You could tell they'd been there yesterday and would be there tomorrow. A routine uninterrupted by the few foreigners milling around them.
Her lips were still moving. A silent mantra. No one could hear what she was saying. Her breath misted just in front of her face, a mask of smoke. One of the Americans knelt beside her, placed his bottle on the ground, and leant towards her face. The scene was almost a romantic interlude. A boy about to kiss the girl. Reassuring. Considerate. A movie close up. The hero and the heroine. He placed his ear near her mouth. The others, his friends, stopped laughing. Reverence. All watched. Waited.
A second passed. Then another. Snow flakes drifted.
The boy looked up.
"...water..." he said.

~

The man scanned the railway car. His ears squinting, trying to pierce the gloom inside. People tried not to look at him. Not wanting to be picked. All were children again in class. Don't ask me the question. Not me. I don't know the answer.
He raised his hand. Slowly. A half-smile flickering on his features. He was creating a false tension, relishing in the power he believed he had. His finger pointed at the first child. A small blonde haired girl who tried to press herself further into the woman holding her. Not wanting to look.
The man nodded his head, finger already moving onto the next child.
The girl looked up at the woman. She nodded. The girl stood up. Others stood up with her. Boys and girls.
The man picked again. And again.
He smiled when he looked at them, standing as he pointed at them. His children. Toys to be played with, brought out on special occasions.
When he was satisfied he turned his hand palm upwards and beckoned. The children shuffled forward. Two more men appeared, one of them smoking a hastily rolled cigarette. The other was laughing. As the children reached the lip of the car they lifted them down, placing them carefully on the snow. The children blinked, some of them started to shiver.
They were made to line up. One of them turned his head to look back at the rest of the train. Each car had a line of children. A break on a school trip. All were silent. In front of them stood the uniformed men. Guns held pointing downwards. Casual. Relaxed. A few more of them were smoking.
A man in black walked along the line-up. Each time he passed he nodded his head. At the command the guards pointed at the railway platform, a few people milling around on it, watching quizzically, wondering. The children began to walk towards it. A soft crump as each created footprints in the fresh white powder. Soles connecting with the hard, packed, surface underneath. The people on the platform formed a small group, not wanting to approach the silent figures, murmuring amongst themselves. Not wanting to attract attention.
The children reached the platform's edge and pulled themselves up onto the rough concrete. Hands number by the cold and stiff from inactivity and fear. A few of the older, bigger, ones helped the smaller ones. A boy grazed his knee. A single drop of blood traced its way down until is was soaked up by his socks.
They stood on the platform. Heads moved. Looking.
At one end stood a line of red buckets underneath a tap. A child, the blonde haired girl started to walk towards them. She stopped. Turned and beckoned for the others to follow. The group moved.
There weren't enough buckets for everyone to take back together. Some of the children hadn't needed to come. They'd been given respite from their confinement. A child smiled.
They organised themselves. Some filled while others carried the buckets back. Water sloshing over the sides. Cold metal gripped in red raw hands. Knuckles turning white. The guards were lined up waiting. Guns now holstered. A mixture of breath and smoke fogging the air in front of them. Faces obscured. Lips smiling.
The first child approached, half of the water had been spilt, now frozen on the unused train tracks. A guard moved forward, towards him. The child stopped, too small to get back into the train by himself. He waited.
The others, still on the platform, watched. Waited. Some of them held hands, sharing warmth.
The child looked at the guard approaching him, relaxed his grip on the bucket.
The man stopped and looked down at the child. Someone laughed.
The man kicked out. Hit the boy's hand. Black on red.
Surprise, a reflex. The bucket....

~

...dropped from her grip. Rolled to the edge of the platform and dropped onto the train tracks. She blinked. Shook her head. The boy stood and stepped back, bent down and stretched his hand out to her. She looked at him and took hold of the hand. Smiled as he helped her to stand.
"Thankyou." She said.
The boy nodded and walked back to join his friends, a faint noise making them turn.
She shivered. Wrapped her hands around herself.
The women stopped staring and went back to their muted conversations.
Some of the others walked back inside the small waiting room.
The Americans picked up their rucksacks and waited. The noise grew louder.

clickety clack
clickety clack

#  top

gone

See the sadness on their faces. Walking past along the crowded pavements. Each one holding anguish which should be more personal. This is not the loss of a loved one. This is the loss of someone who was known. An entertainment. A life they did not know. Someone they held in their hearts - pumping cartoon life around their bodies; filling the veins and arteries with hope and imagined in their heads. They knew felt as though they were one of them, could reach out to touch them if they knew how, if the had the power.

~

They had fun. Playing. Laughing. Crying. Pain. Grief. Time will remember. Time will forget. Some willmove, others move in. For now the flowers wilt, the messages smudge and run. Everyone watching on the streets, in the parks, on the buses and in their homes. Time will pass. Tears will dry and understanding return. Innocence will live. For now gone will return, come back and be forgotten.

~

Why?
No good. No evil. No right. No wrong. Just why.
Everyone has the darkness, held, trapped, enclosed. Some want to see, try to hold a torch upto the darkness. Peek inside. Open the door, lose the key. The dark spreads out, engulfing, unable to return, contain, trap it. They live by the darkness, only societal guilt holding them in check. Darkness controls them. Body vs. Mind. Society vs. Intellect. Many accept the dark, swallows the light. All have the dark, have to keep it in equality with the light. Equilibrium. Together. Equal. Don't let the dark out. Keep the lights shining.

See, the dawn is showing. The day is coming. The night is receding. Soon to return.

#  top

the day before

TOMORROW

Samantha opened her eyes. The sun was shining onto her face through the gap in the curtains. She turned her head to look at the digital clock on the bedside table.
10:00.
The red 'colon' blinked at her indicating the seconds passing. As she watched the last zero changed to a one. She felt as though she'd had a lie in. She couldn't justify staying in bed any longer. She stretched out her legs, feeling her muscles relaxing as the weariness of sleep pushed itself out through her toes. She liked waking up on a Sunday. Alone. She hated waking up on a Sunday with her boyfriend next to her. The first few hours of the day belonged to her. She could get up, have a bath, masturbate to completely relax herself, wander downstairs in her dressing gown, collect the paper which would be sticking out of the letterbox, slouch into the kitchen, put toast in the toaster and make a cafetiere of coffee. Once the toast had popped and the coffee had stood, filling the air with an aroma which felt safe, she would sit down in the living room, legs tucked up under her body, and begin to read the newspaper. She would drop sticky crumbs onto herself, brushing them off, but she would feel content.
The phone started to ring.
Damn, she thought, but she wouldn't rush to answer it. As far as the world was concerned she was still asleep. Slowly she swung herself out of bed and stood up. She walked towards the window and ,with a contented sigh, drew the curtains back. She smiled. The white light enveloped her immediately. White light filled her body and obliterated her surroundings. Her eyes didn't have time to register anything.
The phone stopped ringing.
---

TODAY

Samantha opened her eyes. The sun was shining onto her face through the gap in the curtains. She turned her head to look at the digital clock on the bedside table.
09:00.
Her boyfriend shifted in her sleep next to her. She turned her head to look at him. He was good looking. He also had most of the covers wrapped around his body, hiding his body from view. He would view the time to be too early to wake up. Today, after all, was the start of the weekend. When she climbed out of bed she would make sure she wouldn't wake him. If he awoke it wouldn't be too early to have sex. Samantha hated morning sex. She preferred to have sex in the evening or as the last thing before going to sleep. Morning sex always made you want to stay in bed afterwards and the day would then pass by without a thought to anyone not preparing their day. She had a few things she wanted to get done today. He always wanted sex in the morning. One of the 'perks', Samantha thought, of waking up with an erection. If she did anything in the mornings then it would be on a Sunday when she had her regular bath. Masturbating with warm water lapping between your legs was heaven as far as she was concerned.
She swung her legs out of bed, slowly, making sure she didn't disturb the covers too much. She wouldn't draw the curtains. At the moment the sun was only shining on the space she had occupied. If she let the full force of the sun in then it would only be encouraging him. She walked over to the chair where his clothes were piled up. On the back of the chair was her dressing gown. She slid it off the wooden surface and slipped it onto her body, pulling the two sides together and tieing them loosely across her body. She opened the bedroom door and slipped onto the landing.

Samantha looked at the pile of washing up in the sink. The remains of a chinese take-away rested on the draining board. Greasy silver containers stacked on top of each other, food squashed throughout the small tower. She picked the pile up and threw it into the bin, pushing gently with her hand to squash the remnants of last night down, making room for anymore rubbish she might find. She hated being confronted with rubbish and dirty dishes from the night before. She would have to clean and wash this lot up before she even contemplated breakfast. The water had just reached the desired level in the sink, the bubbles from the washing up liquid made her think of the bath she would be having tomorrow morning. Sunday was her favourite day. As she plunged her hands into the suds she felt a hand reach underneath her dressing gown and caress
her right breast. The nipple stiffened, slightly, under the touch.
"Morning." a throaty voice said, washing hot breath onto the back of her neck.
"Sleep well." she replied, looking at the sink filled with bubbles and trying to concentrate on the actions of her own hands rather than those of her boyfriend.
He continued to rub her nipple. His other hand reached lower and began to rub her between her legs through the cotton of her pyjama bottoms. She almost lost a side plate from her grip.
"Up early." the male voice said, before bending its head down and kissing her softly on the side of her neck. Her hands started to slow their movements.
"Yes..." she noticed her own breathing was becoming heavier, her mouth parted slightly.
"Got plans ?" he said as his foot moved itself between hers, nudging them apart, allowing his hand more freedom to explore between her thighs.
"Y..es..." her breath was coming in shallow gasps.
He grunted something unintelligible. His hands moved towards the waistband of her pyjama bottoms and tugged them loose from her waist. She could feel the coolness of the air around her caress the exposed flesh. The cord of her dressing gown had come loose, the material covering her body now being lifted up, hands on her waist pulling her backwards. Her arse was now exposed, the foot between her feet was pushing her legs apart, she could feel his stiffness, released from the confines of his boxers, nudging against her bare behind. She moved her body forward, pulling her hands out of the sink and reaching for her pyjama bottoms, which were now crowding her ankles. She felt her boyfriend's hands relax and depart from her body.
"Can't blame me for trying." he said, stepping backwards, tucking himself back into his boxer shorts.
"Sorry," she said, returning to her washing up, plunging her hands into the warm liquid, "but I want to get this done."
"Shall I put some toast on ?" he asked.
"Please, and make the coffee."
"Sure."
"Thanks."
She turned her head to look at him. He was handsome. She winked. He smiled in return.

The town was busy. People rushing around, as though Saturday was the only free time they had. Released from their jobs they had to get everything done on this one day.
Teenagers hung around the raised flower beds in the centre, cigarettes held casually, boys chatting up the girls. A few of them held hands, swapping glances, occasionally leaning towards each other and locking lips. Families kept each other in check. Dads hung around the entrances to clothes shops, mums helping their daughters to pick the
latest fashions, but nothing to short or revealing, they weren't old enough for those clothes were they ?
Samantha wandered around. She had a few minutes to kill before she was meeting her friend for a coffee and a sandwich. She stepped into the local bookstore. She'd noticed a sign outside advertising full time work. She browsed the shelves for a few minutes but nothing glared back at her willing her to make a purchase. She walked upto the counter. A blonde girl was standing next to the till, turned away from it, talking to one of her colleagues.
"Excuse me." Samantha volunteered.
"Sorry," the girl turned towards her, "yes ?"
"I'm enquiring about the job advertised in the window."
The girl looked at her for a few seconds, she looked slightly bemused.
"I'll just let the manager know." she said.
"Thanks."
Samantha looked at the girl as she picked up the phone and spoke into it. She wondered if the girl's blonde crop would suit her.
"He'll be down in a second." the girl said, interrupting Samantha's deliberations on a change of hair style.
"Thanks."
A few minutes later, and another phone call upstairs, the manager came down to see Samantha. He looked at her and asked her a couple of questions before handing her the application form. Samantha thanked him and left the shop, folding the paper and placing it in her handbag. She liked the idea of working in a bookshop. She enjoyed reading and liked the quiet, reserved atmosphere which permeated throughout the store. She walked back onto the street and checked her watch. Her friend was probably already waiting for her.

"Have you seen this ?".
Samantha looked at her friend as she spoke.
"Seen what ?"
A magazine was placed on the table. It was the latest issue of a celebrity gossip glossy. Her friend started to flick through the pages.
"I saw it earlier and couldn't believe it."
Samantha frowned. Her friend was obsessed with these magazines. She would gaze longingly at the photos of the wealthy and the famous. A look of envy would crease her skin as she imagined that this glamorous world was forever excluded from her.
"Here."
Samantha looked at the picture in the magazine. It was a photo which had been made to look as though it was ripped down the middle. A well dressed man was on one side while a smiling, equally, glamorous woman stood on the other.
"Can you believe they've split up."
"No."
"None of us saw it coming."
"No."
"We all thought they'd be together forever."
"Yes."
"Didn't you ?"
"Hadn't really thought about it."
Her friend looked at her and sighed.
"Samantha, sometimes I wonder whether you think about anything or realise what's really going on."
Samantha suppressed a laugh. Knowing what was happening in the world of celebrity was not top of her list of priorities. She could also say the same about her friend. As far as she knew she never read a newspaper and would probably not have an opinion on anything which was happening on the world stage.
"Anyhow, how's David ?"
"He's fine." Samantha replied.
"Still treating you right ?"
"Always does."
"That's good, so nice to see you in a stable relationship," her friend sipped at her coffee, "at last."
Samantha failed to rise to the last comment. Just because her longest relationship had totalled up three and a half years, and that was four years ago, she did not feel the
need to be actively looking for a long term relationship. If one came along it would not be planned. It would just happen.
"How are you and Richard ?" Samantha asked to be polite.
"Wonderful."
Samantha sipped her coffee. She liked meeting up with her friend every Saturday. The banality of it made her feel that the world was alright.
"How's unemployment treating you ?"
"Fine," Samantha replied, "I'm quite enjoying it."
"I just couldn't give up my job, it's the world to me."
"I'm going to apply to work in the book store."
"Really," a hint of disdain in her friend's voice, "not much of a career move."
"I'm not looking for a 'career move' right now."
"Sometimes I worry about you, Samantha."
"I'm fine."
"Good," her friend smiled, "now are you and David free in a week."
"Yes, I think so."
"Good, you are invited to mine for a small dinner party."
Samantha nodded.
"I'll phone you later in the week to remind you, OK ?"
"Yes, fine, no problem."
Her friend looked at her watch and grimaced.
"God, I've got to shoot.
"OK, same time next week ?"
"Sure." she said as she stood up and leaned forward to kiss Samantha on both cheeks.
"See you soon." Samantha replied, watching her friend organise her shopping.
"Take care."
"I will."
Samantha watched the other girl leave the coffee shop, all hair, make-up and shopping. A look of anxiety crossed her face as she stepped onto the pavement outside. She didn't look as glamorous as the people in the magazine. Other people walked past the coffee shop window. A few of them stared in, eyes glancing across Samantha's face. She looked away.
She didn't like people looking at her but she did enjoy watching other people, which was why she always sat at the front of the coffee shop, allowing her eyes to scan the
people going about their daily business.
Samantha finished her coffee and picked her handbag up, placed some money on the table and left. She headed towards the video shop. She wouldn't be seeing David this evening so she fancied a night in with a George Clooney movie, a bottle of wine and a takeaway.

Samantha poured herself another glass of wine. She was looking at the application form which was laid out on the table in front of her. She hated filling these things in. All
she wanted was a job. A job which lasted between the hours of nine and five. A job she wouldn't bring home with her at night. A job she wouldn't have to think about at the
weekend. how difficult was it to work in a shop anyway. How was she supposed to write a reason why she wanted the job ? What did being able to work as a team have to do with working in a shop ? If she could just walk into the place and start work she could show them that she could do the job. How did they really know whether she would be any good purely from an application form. She knew they would hire someone who could fill out application forms properly. She couldn't. Always left it until the last minute and then she would just write down whatever came into her head. It was the same with exams at school. She could do the work, found homework easy but, when it came to exams, would just fall apart. Her mind would go blank. No matter how much revision she had done it never seemed to be enough. She'd barely scraped the qualifications together which she did have. She sipped her wine. Enough, she would fill the form in tomorrow. She would have plenty of time tomorrow. Tonight was for George Clooney. She would watch him. Imagine him knocking on her door. See his stubbled face at the window. Tonight and tomorrow were for her. Her. Alone.

The video finished re-winding. Samantha yawned, the bottle of wine stood half empty at her feet. The remains of another take-away sat on the coffee table in front of her. She would clean it up in the morning. She knew she would regret thinking that but there was no way she could be bothered to attempt a clean up now. Once she'd started to tidy and wash it wouldn't stop. She needed to get to bed. Sink herself into her mattress, hide herself under the sheets. Feel warm. Feel safe. She would have a lie in tomorrow. No rush. Nothing to get up for. She'd have all the time she needed.
The phone started to ring.
It can ring, she thought, but nothing will interfere with me now. Slowly, the noise of the phone echoing around the house, she made her way upstairs and walked into her bedroom. She undressed slowly and slipped her pyjamas on. The phone was still ringing when she slipped between the sheets and turned the light off. She closed her eyes and felt sleep welcome her.
The phone stopped ringing.

#  top

distractions of a beautiful stranger

She sits. Cross-legged on a chair. Smoking. Cigarette held between black gloved fingers, sparkling in the neon glare. Smoke tendrils escaping, slowly, from cherry perfect lips. Dark smudged eyes. Eyes of a junkie requiring a fix. Fashion. Fashionable. Heroin-e chic. Eyes stare, straight ahead, looking towards the horizon. Not seeing what sits in front of her. Worshipped not seeing worshipper. Ignoring pleas and cries. She is watched. She ignores - choice or disinterest ?
She moves slowly. Carefully.
Stockinged leg caresses stockinged leg.
Soft silky sound.
Cigarette drops, crushed by sensible shoes.
Short, slitted skirt slightly parts. Stocking tops and flesh exposed. Visible. Rustle of mother ironed crisp, white blouse. Striped tie round neck loosened. Head flicks back, blonde bunches, roots black, flick over shoulders. Long neck shown - ready for bites. Begs for bruised flesh. Hands move on legs. Gliding along black, smooth length. Can almost feel the material. The touch. The taste. The smell. Perfume mingled with femininity. Hands gliding, unseen, urgently, along smooth length. Sparks of pleasure building. Fingernails scrape, any harder and they would ladder, rip, tear, the
material. Ruined. Not perfect. Legs move. Glimpse of white cotton. Flash. Disappear. Image burned on watching eyes,preserved in brain. After image to re-awaken in dreams later in night. Sleep in bed. Wake in stained sheets.
Door opens.
She is distracted. Turns head as though not expecting this. Hand goes to face. Finger presses to lips. Lips pucker, eyes open wide. Man enters. Naked. Ready. Muscled, oiled, tanned flesh flexed for pleasure. Work out sweat still glistening across smooth male body. Hair slicked back, eyes in shadow. Unheard gasp from girl. Annie School she is called. Each watcher imagines she has been distracted by each and everyone one of them. Fantasy made flesh as the man approaches her. They are the ones with Annie School. Not him. They are him. They feel co-joined with him. Siamese twins of pleasure.
Man's lips move.
Unheard, words imagined set alight in minds.
Hi, they think, I've been watching you. Alone. With. Me.
She stays silent. Standing, slowly, Facing the man. Moving head, up and down, over his body. Legs parted, hands at her side. Waiting for him to make the first move.
He approaches. Snakes hand around her waist. Leans forward. Kiss. Long, tongues imagined entwining. Moisture mixing. Saliva drips from mouths. Annie School goes limp. Submits. He moves round, both in profile. Can be seen by watchers but still watchers cannot be seen. She steps back, his hands on her shoulder pushing her down. She kneels. Lips, bruised cherries, engulfs flesh. Slowly move, wetness against hardness. He holds her head. Hips slide himself in and out of her. Her eyes look up at him. Awe struck.
She releases him. Reclaiming her mouth as her own. Stands up.
Blouse undone. Stripped from shoulders, dropped to floor. Strong hands on soft white skin. Mouth sucking nipple. Soft to hard. Pink to red. She opens her mouth. Moan escapes from her throat. Long nails scrape on male flesh. Simulation of watchers, sliding, faster, up, down. Mouth moisture rubbed in.
Hands on skirt. One slides under. Fingers caress unseen cotton. Musk soaked material mingling with Annie School's perfume. A powerful intoxication reaches their senses. Eyes close, some need to imagine more than to see the reality. Fantasy within a fantasy. Endless looping. Lives starved of reality. Living in fantasy. Partitioned from the real. Unobtainable. Only available, special offer - clearance sale, all must go - within the mind. Joining Annie School in her world in their dreams. Wishing she was theirs.
Male fingers slip inside her, feeling her warmth, giving her pleasure.
Man kneels. Pulls skirt to floor. Mouth on cotton. Kissing. Tasting. Breathing. Tongue slips round edge. Annie School moan. Hands grip panties. Pull down. Legs part. Mouth kiss. Head back. Girlie gasps. Short, fast, breathless. Her hands rub herself as she is drunk. Her head turns. Looks at a watcher. No recognition. Doesn't see. Doesn't know. She's stuck in her own world. No life observed outside of this
one. Forever held on endless repeat. Slow motion stop and start. Fantasy beyond the glass. Alone. Forever. Never ending story. Always feeling alone. But always watched. In room. Antiseptic smell. Dark, clean. Always the same, no variation, no decoration. Stark. Sparse. Barren. They are alone. Lonely. She is their company. Their only company. They live to come here. See her. No other purpose. Work to get money. Money to ensure purpose. Never ending. Endless. She keeps them company. Here. There. Everywhere. In the day, at a desk, on the train, in the car, eating dinner, fucking their wives. She is always there, filling empty lives with hope. Meaning. She doesn't know what effect she has. She affects them. They need her. Want her. Hunger for her. Glad she is forever trapped behind the glass. A butterfly never to be allowed to escape. An animal in the zoo. Forever prowling, knowing something exists beyond. Freedom. No escape. She works. Needs job. Needs to live. Like them. She needs them. They need her. Different but the same.
Shutter down.
Money in slot. Clink. Clink.
Shutter up. Light in the dark.
They wait. Waiting to be distracted by a beautiful stranger ?
She sits. Cross-legged on a chair. Smoking.

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give it away

The sky broods. Grey clouds scud across it, vagabonds joining together, creating a group of like-minded individuals - separate personalities swallowed into the whole.
Minority becoming the majority.
The black clothed stand outside the record shop, cut-outs in the landscape, a body darkness swallowing the light, a void of thought and interest. Each one in regulation nu-metal emblazoned, hooded tops - underground swallowed by the corporate - flaming skulls and kool sloganed skateboards tucked under arms. Each one thinking they are individual not knowing they are uniformed.
Boys' baby-faces crowned with spikes.
Girls' angelic looks haloed with multi-coloured hues.
They try to stare hatefully - look how I am abused, my life is wasted, there is no point - at those who wander past. Profanities at the ready to shock anyone who is older. Muted conversations about sexual conquests and substances abused. Trying to shock themselves and those around.
A few nod heads. Headphones clamped to heads, loud guitars informing them of their anguish - mainly boredom; disease of the middle classes. Thoughts clamouring to find their own personalities, revelling in being bored, hanging out on street corners to be bored, to complain about being bored.
Too young to drink, too nervous to abuse. Staying within the law not through obedience but through self-regulated fear.
He notices them as he walks past. Many stare at him - barely disguised snears - look at the grown-up infiltrating, invading, OUR space. He does not feel grown-up. He is heading towards the record shop where the children meet outside. Day in, day out. No thought. Automatons on automatic. Thinking they are new and original, not realising the person walking past them has thought, felt and seen the same as them. Individuals by taste and clothing not by thought.
Perhaps it was easier at that age, no worries, no concerns. Looking back now it seemed easier. A nostalgic reaction, but, back then it didn't seem easy. Nothing seemed easy. You still had fears and worries that seemed important. The only thing you didn't think about was mortality; you could, and would, live forever, time moved slowly like the sun on a, nostalgic, summer's day. You weren't worried about sharing your life with someone because you shared your life with everyone. You went out with girls for sex not companionship - that's what friends were for.
Now friend could be lover.

Ten years was a long time to be friends. To keep in contact, not seeing each other every day, separated by a few hundred miles of fields and motorways. Only contact a couple of times a year - see each other less. He always felt he was holding a candle. Every time he saw her. Spoke to her. Thought about her. It was right. He knew it.

The shop enveloped him in lounge-core-jazz. Inside was the antithesis to the Kafka figures haunting the streets. You couldn't be darkly serious in here - there should've been a sign on the door - 'No Angst' / 'No Existentialism'. He understood why those in black stayed outside, this was not their place. They were too young, too inexperienced to set foot inside. This was a place for dreamers. For those in love. This was not a place to go just because you liked your music to reflect your life - this was your life. Everywhere you looked was a sound you should own. Even the background, browsing, music wouldn't have been out of place on your stereo, it sounded good in here - it was the sound of how your life should be. All smoky cafés, endless days drinking strong, black coffee and European beers watching, and waiting, for the world to go by. You didn't need to be a part of it. You were content to allow it to pass you by. You didn't work. You didn't worry about not working. All that was important was watching the people rushing around outside of your hermetically sealed, bubbled, world. You were living inside a movie - 'Swingers', 'Reservoir Dogs', 'The Big Sleep', 'Betty Blue'. Conversation was the action. Character was the plot. A well-turned phrase was, almost, more important than a well-turned suit.
A life captured on film, in music - living inside a Saint Etienne song - you were here to buy into a lifestyle. The music you bought was unimportant, it wouldn't sound the same once you took it home. It sounded right, here, now. This was the time. In here and with her. When you played the albums later - some new, some nostalgic - it spoke to you, hinted at the life you could have, felt you needed, should be living. When you took those same albums home they sounded flat, the reality had seeped into them. A life of solitude and isolation could not be held at bay by the music.
He knew she would like the background sounds. Would want to buy it. He knew he would expound on the selection of music on offer once she arrived. Be excited, excitable, a small boy again, wanting to spend all his money on objects which would only bring momentary happiness. She would understand his excitement. She would feel excited herself. They could share the excitement, try to urge each other to buy more and more. They didn't need what they bought, just wanted it. He wanted to share with her, for her to ask his advice, he didn't want to leave, he wanted to buy as much as he could. Satisfaction through commerciality, buying into the dream.
Buy. Feel happy.
Consume. Be happy.
Later he would feel disappointment when she didn't like her purchase. It wasn't what she had been in the mood for. She wanted something light and happy, she'd purchased something edged, tinged, with sadness. It would go back tomorrow. He was going back tomorrow. The last day was turning into her purchase. A day lived through shopping. A day defined by the small plastic bag containing the CD. Captured. Tomorrow it would go back, be put back on the shelf, wait for someone else to pick it up, to enjoy it. He wanted to stay captured within the plastic bag; going back should not be an option.
Why did he want to stay - was it the place or the person?

#  top

the suggestion

neon colours mixed with aural delights booming from inside the white building rain splattered against tarmac puddles filling with colour rippling with sound people coursing out of the building drink inside turning heavy bile rising in throats causing them to cough and gag a girl kneeling head down in a doorway throwing her night up hearing it splattering against the glass fronted door a sunday morning welcome for the shop keeper

two girls stood giggling talking two boys had been eyeing them up all evening small talk giving way to touching innuendo and bravado

people milled around music was disappearing ready to return next week when everyone was recuperated another weekend finished with another week to look forward to nothing changed everything the same work rest and play school still a day away work a few hours away after school work same atmosphere same people same pettiness same jealousies nothing changed everything stayed the same everyone looking weekend release escape no worries no thoughts just girls boys alcohol drugs violence blood flowing after the night shattered glass the morning after pill one night stand ending in tears casualty overflowing with the frustration and anger of not being able to escape not knowing when how or why not being able to leave staying forever

we were told - boys claim

girls giggled some more felt self conscious could feel hear others around them

we know you did

girls shake heads no words spoken pure communication through false body language would never admit no matter what anybody had said or heard it was a secret something experienced something touched something personal

we know - boys repeated - we know you kissed while camping

once again girls shake their heads

do it now - boys ask them - go on let us see

you first - one girl says

the boys stare at her unsure of what they have just heard words came from her mouth but did not quite hear catch what she said

we will kiss after you two have kissed - she says other girl grins interested

boys look at them alcohol lust fuel bodies eyes open wide will girls kiss teenage fantasy come true here on street weekend hang out everyone else milling around watching knowing remembering

you first

boy did not move other snaked arm around neck pulled close lips joinedtongue forced into mouth intermingling twining together male kiss eyes open wide not sure what is happening male mouth on male mouth people looking jaws dropped others shrug continue home male tongue touching male tongue girls cannot believe they see what is happening before them male kiss finish

your turn - boys say

no - girls shake heads turn and leave

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warmth under the bedcovers

The alarm rang. The strident electronic beep pierced her dreams. She opened her eyes, a hand raised from the warmth of the duvet, wiping the sticky fluid from them; a piece of yellowed crust pushed onto her cheek.
Fuck.
She turned her head, squinted. Blurred digital characters coming into sloppy focus.
Must be wrong, can't be right. Head lifted from pillow, sleep threatening to push it back down again; press itself into the soft comfort of pastel coloured material, refit to the impression left.
Squint again at the time. Late?
Fuck.

~

It wasn't as heavy as I thought it would be. I didn't have any difficulty raising myself back onto my feet from the kneeling position. They had already gone. Left me alone.

~

She sat on the edge of the bed. The alarm has been switched off, a couple of missed jabs before her finger connected with the button; the digit pushing it backwards along the grooved surface. Silence. Electronic-less.
An intake of breath. Smoke pulled smoothly down her throat, lung-filtering relaxation. She closed her eyes, a brief nap. A few seconds of energy restored, convincing herself she wasn't late, didn't have to leave her room. Was still the weekend.
Her daydream was broken by strident electronic beeps. Tuneful. A pop song degenerated into a few soulless notes. Liked once, hated now.
Fuck.
She scanned the room. The sound like a siren. Heard but not seen, confusing which direction it's supposed to be coming from before, suddenly, appearing screaming round a corner. Blue lights strobing the surroundings, look of distaste on the driver's face, as you struggle to avoid the hell bound white vehicle.
She reaches down, hand grabbing for a pair of white knickers. Crotch stiff - can't remember his name - as she pulls them away from the sleek black vibrating black slab. She throws the knickers across the room, discarded like the night before. She peers at the slab. The green-grey screen out of vision, black lines on it. She needs her contacts to bring the details back into sharp relief.
Stop, she tries to command the phone, stop, fucking stop.
In the back of her mind she knows it's her friend. You're late. I know I'm fucking late. Don't swear. Shut up. Where were you last night? Another late night? What was his name? You'll lose your job. Shut up.
Fucking shut up. Lose her job? This was her last day. Going away for a few weeks. Going away to where she wouldn't have to think.
The phone stops.
She smiles. Exhales a plume of smoke.
It will ring again. She stands up and stretches, pushing her chest out, willing her tits bigger. Not that she has any problems attracting them. The knickers evidence of that. Not a classic beauty one of her ex's told her. Attractive. Natural. No need for make-up. Looks good in combats.
He liked a girl in combat trousers, short hair, no make-up. Slim. Petite. Liked to fuck her from behind. She often wondered about that. Liked his girls boyish. She smiled.

~

One of the men smelt of sweat. Stale sweat slowly masked by fresh moisture. I could see the drops of liquid forming on the back of his neck as he wrapped his arms round my waist, pulling me closer. He talked to me. Hot breath against my ear as his lips moved. He told me not to be nervous. He told me to be proud. He told me not to be scared.
The other man paced the floor. He didn't speak. He made me feel nervous. He kept his head low, staring at the worn dull carpet, occasionally turning to look at the door. Perhaps he was looking for a way out, an exit, making sure he could escape if the situation demanded it. Covering all exits. Making sure I couldn't escape was another possibility.

~

The phone rang again as she walked out of the bathroom. She left wet footprints as she walked to retrieve it.
"Hello?"
"You are going to be late."
"I know."
"Then why aren't you here?"
"I'm just getting dressed."
"You're going to lose this job."
"Last day. Remember?"
"But you're going to want something when you get back."
"Maybe."
"Just get here."
"Make up some excuse for me."
"Like what?"
"Anything, just get me a few more minutes."
"I'll try."
"Thanks, see you in a little while."
She cut the call.
Fuck.
Why did people always have to worry about her? She didn't worry whether she made it in time, so why should her friend? If she lost this job there were other jobs. Plenty of jobs. She'd never had trouble in the past getting work. Sometimes she didn't see the point of working. Why couldn't she stay in bed all day? Because there was always someone telling her she couldn't. They'd hassle you. You can't live like that. It isn't right. Not normal. Be a member of society. Get up. Goto work. Earn money. For what? To buy a house, get married, have children. To live in society you needed to work. Society tried to channel you into debt to keep you working. No way out. But what alternative was there?
Fuck.
She lit another cigarette and walked over to the black chest of drawers. With the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth she pulled the top drawer open and drew out a pair of knickers, followed by some socks. She walked back to the bed, sat down and took the cigarette from her mouth, leaving it resting on the edge of an ashtray on the floor. She lifted her legs up and slipped the knickers on. No need to hurry.

~

I locked the door behind me. It had clicked shut, the small noise echoing through the empty concrete corridor I stood in. The number on the door was loose. I should've phoned the landlord and asked him to fix it. I've lived here for five years. One room and a bathroom. Just the essentials, nothing fancy, nothing frivolous. Just what I needed to live and survive.
I turned round and walked towards the stairs. I was on the fifth floor and I knew exactly how long it would take me to reach the ground floor and how many stairs that was. I would take them slowly, no need to rush down them, no need to risk falling, tripping over my own feet, trying to get this done in a hurry. There was no rush. No haste. Everything would happen in its own time. The time needed would be provided. I reached the top of the stairs.
My feet fell softly on the hard surface. Hardly a sound. Sometimes I would hear laughter funnelled by the stair well upto my flat. As I sat reading I would hear the lives of other people played out around me. Floating voices interrupted my thoughts. I never saw the people who made the sounds. Whenever I ventured out everywhere was quiet. No one saw me and I saw no one.

~

Dressed.
Out the door.
Smoking her third or fourth cigarette of the day.
Awake for less than an hour.
Out the door and into the rush hour of another working day. People moved around her, sensing she was there by instinct not sight. Animals on a migratory path, searching for a watering hole in a drought. She moved among them, cutting across the trail, heading for the claustrophobic tunnels. She hated catching the tube. During the summer it was too hot and in the winter it was too cold. During the day it was too busy and at night too lonely. If she wasn't late she'd walk or, if she had the money, catch a taxi. She liked to listen to the drivers talk about their lives. Soak up the information. At least someone seemed to have a better life than hers.
She reached the top of the steps. She heard a tube pulling out of the station, a few passengers appearing at the bottom, starting their journey upwards. She started to walk down.
A sudden influx of people appeared. A crowd surging forward. She was the only one going against the flow. People knocked into her, pushed at her. Rushing. White blood cells swarming the foreign intruder. She took a deep breath, dropped her cigarette, smouldering, onto the concrete. The red tip quickly crushed under a black polished flood.
The ticket slid from the machine. She slipped it out and turned towards the turnstiles. A boy, late teens possibly early twenties, walked towards her. His eyes glanced over her. She smiled. It always made her day when someone noticed her. He walked past, she could feel his gaze lingering. She turned her head. Smiled. He smiled back, briefly, a quick flash, embarrassed, he continued on his way wishing he'd said something, anything; always wondering what could've been if he'd spoken.
She let the turnstile take her ticket, grabbing it as it stuck up on the other side. A cool breeze blew from one of the tunnels. Another missed train. She wandered through the white tiles, glancing at the signs, looking for her exit / entrance.

~

I sat alone.
The carriage appeared to be quiet, a bubble surrounding me deadening the sound. No one sat near me. Two empty seats. Opposite me a man was reading, his head bowed, above him was a peeling advert for an insurance company; eye catching colours faded and an outdated slogan. The girl next to him was reading a magazine, the glossy pages open against her crossed legs. She was nodding her head in time to music playing though barely seen headphones slotted in her ears.
I turned my head. Looked at others in the carriage. Everyone was wrapped up in their own lives; some stared ahead, seeing no one, others appeared to be busy - keeping their minds occupied, not wanting to think about their lives. I kept my own mind blank. No thought, just action.
The girl next to the man in front of me yawned and looked up from her magazine. Her eyes saw me. She thought about smiling.

~

The noise, heat and smell smothered her as she pushed open the back door. A girl turned to face her, blouse half undone, long blonde hair loose around her shoulders.
"You're late."
"I know."
The girl smiled, shook her head and unbuttoned the rest of the white material. She shrugged it from her, letting it fall to the floor.
"You owe me, kept me back because of you," she said, "I had to kick up a fuss to be let go."
"Well, I'm here now." She said, walking towards her locker.
"Yes."
"Busy?"
"Extremely."
"Great."
"Hot as anything out there."
She smiled and opened her locker. The uniform lay there in a crumpled heap.
Fuck.
She picked it up and smoothed it out as best she could before hanging it from the corner of the open door. The other girl picked a yellow dress from the locker, stepped out of her scratchy blue trousers and pulled the dress over her body. Cooler.
"Well, catch you later."
She nodded, watched her retreat through the door, out into the alley beyond, walking between the large plastic like waste containers. The door swung shut. The noise from outside diminished.
She shed her clothes and dressed in the uniform.
She wanted a cigarette as she walked towards the work area. Too late now. She could see her boss up ahead, turning, slowly, an action sequence in a blockbuster movie, noticing her approaching. He smiled, the grin showing his teeth, and stood, hands on hips, waiting. She slowed her walk, delaying. Maybe he wouldn't shout at her, it was her last day. She knew she was late, didn't need him to remind her of that. He thought he was important, but that only mattered within the confines of this building. Outside he was no different to any other anonymous person you passed on the street. Inside he was somebody within his own head. Most of the staff didn't respect him, they just wanted to get on with their job, didn't want someone interfering all the time. Specially not him.
He glanced at his watch.
How childish. He'd start to wave his finger at her next. She almost laughed.

~

I walk along the street. No one appears to notice me. I am no one. I am nothing. I am not here. I haven't been here for the past few months. Haven't ventured out much. Everything seems new and different, seeing things for the first time. Details. Small details. Cracks in pavement, water in the gutter dripping into the sewers, mobile phone conversations, flowers on a yellow dress.
I feel alive.

~

She serves the customer. Placing the food and drinks onto the brown plastic tray next to her till. They never look at her, eyes are always scanning the menu above her. Looking for the offers, the free gifts, the cheapest option for the most on their tray. She always smiled. She always looked at them. Hardly ever took her eyes from them. Watching their movements. Studying their faces. Trying to second guess them as they attempted to make a decision. Children shouted. The flow of customers had been endless. A constant stream pouring in from the pavement. Endless. She watched each one.

~

I push the door open and the bubble surrounding me turns everything into a silent movie. Mouths open and close. People gesticulate. No effect. No emotion. I walk forward.

~

He is looking at her.
She looks back at him, disconcerted her practiced smile fades.
He smiles at her.
She narrows her eyes. Why isn't he trying to decide what he wants?

~

I am going home.

~

Glass shatters. Silence replaced by screams fades into sirens.

#  top

universe in a bottle

Malc Hutchinson looked at the cold white glow. It should've been burning his eyes out - melting them in their sockets, dribbling down his face while he screamed in agony - it should've been hot. It was hot. Unimaginable heat. However, at this moment, in this situation it was cold.
"Zoom out some more," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers.
The glow started to recede from dominating his vision. He could see edges of darkness, an absolute blackness, occasionally disturbed by minute pinpricks of light. The glow started to take on a circular shape, flares of white, heat, flame, fired up from the sphere, streaking across the blackness. Darker patches of light became more defined on the surface of the sphere.
"Hold it there," Malc said.
"See something?" his companion, spinning his chair round, a quizzical look creasing his features, asked him.
Malc stared at the screen. Was there!? He couldn't be sure.
"Keep on zooming out."
"No problem. Anything there?"
"Thought there was, probably just a speck of dirt on my glasses." Malc grinned.
"Wouldn't be the first time, remember the tenth planet debacle?"
"Talk about five minutes of fame."
"Less if I remember the facts correctly," Malc's companion grinned, "two seconds from e-mailing every single scientific journal known."
Malc nodded. His face was showing deep concentration. The skin wrinkled on his brow, his eyes squinted behind the plastic lenses. He was sure, wasn't he?
"Do you think we've got the right one?" Malc asked, more to the air than anyone in particular.
"Do you trust the computers?"
Malc shrugged.
"Well if you trust them then yes we've got the right one, if you don't!"
"Gut reaction and instinct." Malc murmured, taking his glasses off, chewing the left arm for a few seconds then replacing them back over his eyes, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. Everything pointed to this being the correct one. The machines had pumped out the calculations. Could you trust those calculations? Him and his team had fed them the numbers, what if someone had inputted a wrong number, had mistyped a decimal point? Theoretically, the software would've picked up on this. In theory. Always in theory. Why was nothing ever concrete? What if the calculations and the theories were wrong Were the rules already there, waiting to be discovered or were the rules just made up by scientists to fit in with what they wanted to believe. Was there a grand design?
The picture on the screen now showed a complete white, fiery sphere. Around it was the darkness of nothing. The nothing which slowly being populated with other spheres of hot white light. Soon the black would be as crowded as the night sky outside of the laboratory. Malc and his companion presumed it was night beyond their room. They had no windows to check. No sense of time. How long had they been watching this screen?
If you looked at the screen closely, squinting, you would notice small rough-hewn objects circling the larger sphere. Occasionally these objects would collide and begin to form larger objects. Flashes of red. Sparks of something happening. The more Malc looked his gut told him this was right. Occasionally his head would complain. This couldn't be right. Shouldn't things be happening quicker. Evolvement speeded up. In nature it worked, the smaller the animal, creature, the quicker its heart beat, the shorter its life. Small was quicker. The scene in front of him should've been past this point. Should've formed.
"Check the data again." He said.
His companion nodded and tapped a few buttons on the keyboard in front of him. He stared at a smaller screen embedded in the panel above the keyboard. Malc walked over to him, stood behind and peered over his shoulder. They both watched the numbers scrolling up the screen. Decimal points whizzed past. Numbers so small only a machine could calculate them without going insane. This was what life boiled down to, numbers on a screen. The building blocks. The heart beat. The essence. Malc called it the soul - others preferred the cliché: 'ghost in the machine'. Theologians would disagree; the soul couldn't be analysed, displayed on a computer screen, broken down, studied. The soul was something intangible. Something in the air. The thing that made us separate from the rest of the animal kingdom. Put us, allowed us the arrogance, to presume we were better. The soul and opposable thumbs. Malc grinned. To gain opposable thumbs had taken millions of years of careful evolution. To gain a soul had taken a few years, a couple of planks of wood, some nails and a crown of thorn. Which was more useful? Which was revered and worshipped?
Malc would give his soul to keep his thumbs anyday.
The numbers paused. 'MORE' flashed at the bottom of the screen.
The clickety clack of a line feed printer interrupted the sterile silence.
Malc walked over to the print out.
"What's it say?" his companion asked.
"Nothing we didn't already know."
"Negative."
"Negative."
"I'm telling you this is the right one," the man gestured towards the screen, "we don't know everything yet. It's not a mouse."
"No, it's smaller than a mouse but larger than an elephant."
"Don't get all philosophical on me, you'll be humming hymns next."
"Eastern philosophy has always been closer to western science and more advanced."
"Can't understand scientists who get religion. Like mixing drinks, upsets the stomach and gives you a headache."
"Sometimes any belief will do as long as it provides some answers."
"But does it confirm what you already believe or just gloss over the reality?"
"Now who's philosophising?"
The man grinned. He'd been working with Malc for a few years now and had become quite fond of the man. He always listened to everyone in his team and took new ideas on board, genuinely taking an interest and testing out new theories. Malc liked the theory more than the practice. Like studying Shakespeare - you could say anything you liked as long as, at some point, you could back it up with hard facts from the text. In Malc's case the text was what you breathed. What you looked at when you woke in the morning. The reasons you gave yourself for climbing out of bed and continuing with your life. Malc liked to ask younger assistants the 'ultimate' question - 'Why do you get up every morning?'. The best answer so far was '!because I'm hungry!'. That made Malc smile. Most of the assistants tried to come up with, what they perceived to be, clever answers. Malc wanted a simple, off the top of the head answer - if you thought about something for too long then your ideas became too diluted and influenced. Malc wanted to know what you thought, not spouting society's line - 'goto work' - or what you would read in a book - 'what else is there to do'. What did you think? He sometimes wondered what Malc would answer to his own question. Probably say he had nothing better to do. What made him tick? What made any of us tick? He shook his head. It was too late - early? - to be thinking about this.
"More." Malc said.
"What?" the man woke up.
"Press 'MORE'."
"Oh right, sorry."
"Day dreaming?"
"Sort of."
The man pressed a button on the keyboard. The numbers began to scroll up the screen again. The soul being calculated. Malc glanced back at the screen.
"Stop." He breathed.
"The numbers?"
"No, the zoom."
"The zoom!" The man glanced up as he pressed another button, "Christ!"
"Exactly."
The object was spinning. Spinning around and along a pre-determined - or random - path. It was spherical but smaller than the static image of white light. The new shape gave off a vague hint of blue on its surface.
"Run those numbers again." Malc said, slowly. He wanted to make sure his words, the way he intoned them, gave the impression of the right, implied, meaning. No mistakes. He couldn't afford mistakes. Not here. Not now.
"Sure thing."
Numbers. Filling the screen. Filling his head. They must be right.
Clickety clack, after what seemed an eternity. The spherical shape still in view.
"Follow it, track it." Malc said, still speaking slowly, as he approached the print out. He stared at the black tracks on the thin white paper. Ant tracks in the snow. The machines said they were right. He felt queasy. His gut was telling him he was right. His head nagged with doubts. Shut up. This was it.
"Shall I?" Malc's companion asked, his hand hovering over a phone.
"No."
"We're right, the numbers are right."
"I've got someone else to call first."
"Who?"
"My son," Malc approached the phone and held the receiver close to his ear, "this is what I promised him. I did this for him. My right hand man."
Malc dialled.
The ringing filled the darkness between the stars..

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twelve :: a review

Written after the Columbine school shootings, Twelve by Nick McDonnell, portrays the empty and pointless lives - as viewed from the outside - of a group of Manhattan socialite teenagers. Rich kids who have everything but can't get what they really want - sex, drugs and 'to be cool'.

In this world everything is a commodity and 'goods' are bargained and bartered for - sex for drugs, drugs for sex - the hint of violence born from frustration exists underneath the neat facades. A world where parents leave their children home alone, only re-appearing, re-called via phone, when situations go wrong and become too much for the kids to handle. Only the adults can cure the chaos of these teenagers' lives.

The novel is an ensemble story - relying upon character more than plot - where different strands intersect each other, events played out from different viewpoints, helping to build up the complete, fractured picture. The main character is the drug dealer, White Mike. He is the eternal outsider, an observer of the life he sells to the others. Viewed as being cooler than cool he is the one person the others yearn to be like. It's his view which portrays the majority of the events in the novel, while lesser events spiral around him, leading to the inevitable, explosive conclusion. He is also the only fleshed out character - he has a history and motives for his actions - and the most sympathetic. The reader shares his views on the emptiness of everyone else's lives.

American Psycho - novel - Fight Club - novel or movie - Kids - movie - have all provided cynical visions of the westernised 'leisure society', this is nothing new and Twelve - also the name of a near mythical, new drug with almost religious effects - treads a path through similar territory. What makes the novel appealing is the sheer force of the prose and the, almost, impossible task of trying to put the novel down. In less than a day you can read this book - a one hit sitting, an adrenaline pumped high. This, though, is also its weakness, after turning the final page you cruise into the downer and it leaves you wanting for more. A single final hit.

Hopefully this is an indication to what the author could achieve in the future and I, for one, will be waiting for my next injection.

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Buy Twelve by Nick McDonnell:

Amazon.co.uk
Amazon.com

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the sexual life of catherine m. :: a review

This could've been an interesting and erotic study of one woman's countless sexual encounters, many of them with multiple partners. Maybe in its native French it has more appeal but the English translation, to quote the cliche, definetly seems to lose something.

It is either badly written or badly translated, either way it becomes more of a catalogue of emotionless sex, rather than a titilating narrative. Catherine M., an art critic, seems more interested in the mechanics of sex rather than the emotions behind it but offers no insight into her reasons for this. In most cases she is an empty shell being 'filled' by the men whom she encounters.

On the back cover this book is compared to 'The Story of O', I would disagree with this, 'O' is at least erotic, and I would compare 'The Sexual Life of Catherine M.' to 'Crash' by JG Ballard. Quite a few of the sex scenes happen in cars, by the sides of roads and in modern, concrete car parks, and both books share the same lifeless, analytical writing style. Although 'Crash' is a study of modern fetishism and the eroticism of consumerism - sex sells cars - taken to a 'logical' extreme, I'm not sure what 'The Sexual Life...' is trying to say. It may have worked as a confessional for the author, a way of working through her 'guilt' of having had an 'inappropriate' number of sexual partners, at least by society's 'normal' mainstream standards. Perhaps Catherine M. is trying to produce a study of modern sexuality, how it has moved more towards the action than the emotion, but, if this is the case, she offers no real explanations of why this might be so. She doesn't even offer sociological or philosophical thoughts of her own on this matter.

If you are interested in an eroticless study of modern sexuality I would read 'Crash' by JG Ballard rather than the 'Sexual Life of Catherine M.'

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relative strangers

He sat staring into the swirling milk in the coffee cup. The milk spun round in a slow anti-clockwise motion, the blackness turning brown on each turn. He could feel someone watching him. Eyes on the back of his neck, paranoia gripping him by the throat.

"Have you seen this man ?" he said, producing a curled photograph, showing it to the woman in front of him.
"Let me see." she said.
"Look at the eyes."
The woman adjusted her glasses, pushing them further up her nose, squinting through the lenses, her face screwing up slightly. She stared at the face held in front of her.
"This is an old photograph." he explained, noticing a look of unfamiliarity cross her features.
"Looks familiar." she murmured, reaching out to take the photo.
The man moved his hand back.
"No," he said, "don't touch it."
"Can't be sure then."
"Look at the eyes."

Someone was watching him. Watching him closely. He couldn't see them but he was sure. It was the familiar sensation of observance. The skin on his scalp tightening, hairs standing on head. His heart started to beat faster. He could feel it in his chest. Feel the injection of small amounts of adrenaline dripping into his veins. He allowed his eyes to look at the other people in the bar with him.
A girl sat at the bar.A couple sitting at the table in front of him.
They were all wrapped up in their own personal worlds. To busy with themselves to even bother about him. He couldn't look behind him. Didn?t want to make eye contact with the person who was making him the object of their concentration.
His gaze wandered back to the girl at the bar. She was alone. Blonde hair fell over her shoulders, occasionally slipping in front of her face. She would then push the strands back with long fingers. No nail varnish. Clean.
He liked that. Clean. Even though he couldn't see her face he knew she was attractive. He could sense it within her.

He had been here.
His friend.
He stood in the center of the small room. The walls were covered in a conservative, blue square pattern. Modern. There was a single bed against one wall. Sheets were clean, the bed was neatly made. There were no posters on the wall. No TV. No books on the bookshelves. He looked at the shelves. No dust. He glanced around. No dust. No clutter. Clean.
He had been here.
As the man walked out of the room he glanced at the open door on his right.
"Thanks for your help," he called out to the woman in the easy chair. Sitting upright, head slumped forward.
He left the house without waiting for a reply.

The girl ordered another drink. She gazed at the barman. She was obviously lonely. He knew what that felt like. Being lonely. He'd been lonely for awhile. A jigsaw puzzle which wasn't complete. He felt as though he was constantly waiting.
He should go upto her. Make her aquaintence. He knew he could talk to her. Make her feel comfortable. Make her feel wanted. Company for the night ahead. He should talk to her. He felt like it. She wouldn't mind.
Something was missing.
He'd done this before. Chatted to a woman on her own. Lonely. Gone back with her. Spent the night. Left in the morning before she awoke. Left her there in bed, curled up under the sheets. Breathing.
It wasn't the same though.
Nothing to share.
No one to talk to.

It was the first bar he came to. A large glass front allowing him to see in from the street. He knew he'd been in there. Drinking. Drinking coffee. He knew he'd be alone.
He stood on the street, a step back from the window, staring in.
There.
His head was turned towards the bar.
A girl sat at the bar.
He knew he'd be watching the girl. She was his type. Slim, blonde. Alone. Someone he could approach and talk to. Why wasn't he talking to her ?
He stood and watched him. He had found him. They would be together again. They would share.

The door opened.

He was still looking at the girl when he entered and walked towards the bar. He watched him stand next to the girl. The sensation of being observed had gone. His hair relaxed, his skin stopped prickling. His hands started to feel slick with sweat. He watched him order a drink, glance at the girl, a brief smile flickering across his lips. The girl seemed to ignore him. It was always the way. They never ignored him though. They felt at ease with him.
He turned.
He watched.
He approached him.
He started to stand.
His face.
"Hello." he said as the other stood.
He nodded. Something about him was familiar.
"The eyes."
He looked into the eyes.
The other grinned. Held out his hand.
He took it.
Hands interlocked. Complete. Together. The search was over. One had found the other.
They had been estranged. Kept apart, not allowed to see each other. Ordered not to see each other. One had found the other.
"Her."
He nodded.
Both men turned to look at the girl. One went to speak to her. The other sat and waited. They would be strangers to each other.
They would share.

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lines in the snow

It's easy to create an impression on the world when you are younger, albeit briefly. It's more satisfying. Standing there watching the lines appear, steam rising from the cold ground, the white staining yellow. Lines in the snow.

You think it's not supposed to be like this. Most people you know are married, a few have children on the way, not that you want kids. Not yet. Or be married. It would be good to be with someone though. Someone to share your thoughts with; your life, your hopes, dreams and passions. Not this purgatorial limbo your life seems to have run into. Neither moving forward or backward, creating a metaphorical dust circle when you should be creating a straight line. Lines in the snow.

Someone you know creates their own lines. On a mirror. Credit cards do the creating. After a line he doesn't shut up. SHUT UP! You wish people would be quiet. Leave you alone, especially when you're tired or ill. SHUT UP! You need the peace and quiet. Always talking about how wonderful, great, good, okay, their lives are. Better than yours. After work you go home. They go drinking and line making. They ask you. Or they used to, not so much now, expecting the same answer. No. You are not interested. Their lives are circular, your life is continuing in a straight line, you tell - convince - yourself. Lines in the snow.

Thirty. At home, sitting on an office style, black chair. Hands on the keyboard, hovering over, clutching the hand-shaped - sculpted - device called a mouse. Pushing the buttons, typing the addresses. Looking. Searching. Following a straight line, sometimes spinning back on yourself, creating a random, circle with a new starting point but an old finish. You find what you are looking for, sometimes. You like something particular. Your own peculiar fetish. At least society calls it a fetish. For you it's normal. Straight. Long. Hard. Rubbing. Slow then fast. Faster. Passion build-up. Passion released. Passion finish. Sticky white stain. Lines in the snow.

Piss splashing the porcelain. Alone, watching your fluids splatter against the white porcelain. Cracked, white porcelain. Pissed. Friday. Same. Still thinking, drunkenness doesn't stop the thoughts, just makes them seem more plausible. You should do it. What's stopping you? The people you came with won't notice if you step outside. Won't notice if you left and went home. Their not really interested in what you have to say. Voices. Speech. People talk but don't hear. Not interested. You haven't been talking or listening. Just looking. Drinking the beer. Staring at the girls, fantasising about them, knowing they are not interested in you. Not one dot. Lines in the snow.

You step outside.
Snow crunches under your slow, purposeful, leaden, footsteps. Grooved impressions, which will last only until morning, showing up behind you.
You walk into a backyard. Snow is softer here; powder like on top, harder underneath. You breathe out, breath fogging, freezing in the air. You unzip, pull your flesh out and relax you bladder. Warmth heats cold. A mini-weather system operating at your whim. Steam rises. Straight not circular. You smile. The satisfaction doesn't change. You feel the same as you felt when you were younger. In control; of your life, your destiny. Lines in the snow.

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dead loss

he sat at the wooden formica table his elbow stood a few centimetres away from a cooling puddle of mud coloured coffee in a few moments the liquid would be cold he stared out of the window watching the people walk past opposite him was the town hall its union jack flying at half mast he could see the sadness on their faces walking past not thinking about themselves hearing the voices inside their own heads not their fault not their fault how could it really be their fault they could not have anything to do with any of this how could it be their fault did they know could they feel the anguish the pain the grief of having lost someone close to them what did any of them know about the feelings of loss a few people climbed the steps outside of the town hall a few more people were leaving walking back onto the cracked concrete of the pavement their heads hanging down staring at their chests perhaps they could see their own hearts still pumping cartoon drawings of life spreading hope through their veins filling their arteries with feelings they knew they were alive they could feel themselves being alive they could see themselves alive their thoughts were glad to be alive the mind keeping the body going 2 separate entities co-existing keeping the other alive the brain making excuses for a reason to live the body the flesh the blood and bones an automaton lurching through existence not knowing where it is going or how it came to be the mind creating the illusion around itself only seeing what it needs to survive keeping the best bits the truth to itself not allowing the eyes the bodies sight to really see what is there to know what it can never know the catch the brilliance the blinding light if it knew if it saw if it stared upon the light nothing would get done the truth would be known the mental could not fool the physical anymore the flesh would rebel forcing itself to expel the mind to kill itself knowing it was useless he sipped the coffee in the cracked white mug why did he feel nothing no anguish no grief no suffering no point he sat he drank he stared watched them milling around in groups pouring their hearts out to total strangers united in the tragedy everyone glad to be alive because if he could die then anyone could die everyone had to face their own mortality realise none of them were immortal none of them had long left they all celebrated the millennium not realising that all would die with 20-something on their tombstones the youth of their past was dyeing they could feel themselves aging growing older flesh slower mind muddled bones creaked questioning what is it all about what is the point where does it begin and where will it end is there a point birth education job marriage children old death where was the point where was the life where does one start and the other end a modern world which was erasing the possibility of meaning gave no point no one needed to just live to survive everyone was now living for entertainment filling up empty lives with empty games empty films empty television filling up time waiting for the reaper and his scythe to cut a swathe through the harvest to plough the field sow it with fresh seeds and wait for the new crop to grow nurture it whispering hollow promises promising it eternal life immortality allowing it to pull the rug from underneath its own feet gave it free will free will to live its own life letting each person to find meaning to their own lives and at the point of realisation a dawning of the mind a new day awaits the sun rising an epiphany the crops are cut harvested packaged and lain in the ground to rot to be eaten to be food for the eco-system to help nurture the planet from the ground up after itself has fed off the planet the planet feeds off of it an eternal cycle the only point being to keep the planet going the eternal wheel the endless cycle the planet must live and for the planet to live the top of the food chain must become the bottom of the food chain everything must form a circle he pushed a cigarette into his mouth lit it allowed the smoke to curl off of his tongue he blew at it dispersing the greyness watched it dissipate itself rising as heat always rises forming a part of the atmosphere other people breathing it in polluting their bodies without them realising starting a chain reaction a cycle going round endless never stopping can never stop must never stop will never stop

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sounds from within

If there'd been a noise she could have understood. There had been no noise. Only an absence of sound. Silence, but the only type of silence that was absent from noise.
A sound had disappeared. A sound so familiar and ordinary that it was deafening in it's absence. No regular thump, no feeling of continuance, just an empty, cloying silence. She was aware. Aware of spatial surroundings. Aware of movement. Aware of feeling outside of herself, just not aware of anything within her. No feeling, no sense of herself. Just outside. Voices, a bright light, all combined to convince her that she was somewhere. She concentrated on the voices, caught odd muttering as though spoken under the breath.
"Quality....."
The word stood out amongst the others.
Quality.
No reply.
".....life......."
Another word which had a meaning that escaped her at the moment.
Still there was no noise from within her. Silence enveloped her whole internal workings. She tried to move, to signal but was not aware of anything happening. Something moved near her, she felt the air shift around her body. She thought the should be cold, or feel a cool breeze but she felt nothing. Once again she heard those two words.
Quality. Life.
Life. Quality.
Were they talking about her ?
Were they anything to do with her ?
The light shifted, seemed to darken slightly. Were her eyes open or closed ? Where was the light coming from ?
She wanted to ask the voices these questions but could feel no voice forming to say what she was thinking. Surely their should have been a sound by now ? Something to indicate she was here, that she could hear them. She wanted to create a noise. A noise would prove that she was something. To show that she did fill her space with the others.
Life.
Quality.
"Decide......."
Another word. Did it fit with the others, join in, make more sense, was the sentence beginning to form, would she soon have an understanding. Would she be able to scream, shout, utter a word, hear a noise, fill the void.
"......now........"
She was sure her eyes were open because she could see the light. Brighter one moment, darker the next as though something kept on passing in front of it.
Decide.
Life.
Quality.
Now.
I am here, she wanted to say, I am here.
The light began to darken. Become less of a light and more of a dark. It seemed to fit in with the silence which was seeping from her. She thought she could make out a vague shape, an outline against the diminishing light, a hazy figure. Struggling. Struggling to be free of something. Twisting before her eyes, hands grabbing at something near its leg.
Decide.
What was it that these voices needed to decide ?
Couldn't she help in the desicion, wouldn't they ask her. The figure seemed to become more bold, more defined. A woman. Floating. A woman floating in front of her. Somehow familiar. Something about the way it moved, turned its head, hair flowing down its back. Free. Young. The light had faded completely now, just a faint glow around this figure floating in front of her. Even the voices seemed to have stopped now. The face became distinct. A smile spread across the serene features. A beautiful face full of life. No signs of age. Eyes sparkling with their own light. A youthful body. Something was tied to its legs, something which was holding it down. The figure was trying to float upwards but something held it down. The eyes were darting around, looking for a way out. It didn't seem to notice the other woman looking.
"Now......."
The voice was full of urgency.
"Seconds........"
A noise.
A thump.
The figure suddenly looked pained. Grief spreading across the serene features. It looked down.
Another thump. The noise was loud - almost deafening.
The figure was fading. It was moving back down, arms held above the head wanting someone to grab hold and pull her backup.
The light was flowing back in. The darkness was disappearing.
Thump.
The figure disappeared as the light returned.
"Just in time......"
"A second more......"
She could hear it now. A slow but rhythmic sound. Coming from within her. She could feel herself. Not just the space around her. She was filling out. Her eyes were open and she could see people around her, looking down at her. Everyone was smiling. She was smiling.

The woman in the bed took a breath and felt alive.

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dub. ambient. paranoia.

The man sucked on the last vestiges of his cannabis stick. He flicked the smouldering stub against the nearest wall, watching the sparks fly before he turned and stepped onto the podium. He surveyed the silence before him. Oxies danced in frenzy as their surgically implanted oxygen purifiers fed them nothing but oxygen. Pure. Their gaunt bodies spiralling to their own weird rhythms, oxygen masks instead of a nose and mouth made them look like stunted elephant men. Friers sitting in corners staring blankly into despair and misery, their pure white eyes never flickering. Their blood was a thick cocktail of drugs that would never leave them. Space junkies with no tune of their own. Junkers. Cybernetic limbs displayed in what was once the height of fashion. Rusting limbs now waving pathetically in the air, occasionally sparks would shower from them as something short-circuited. They moved slowly fading into nothing. Flyers with multi-coloured ever shifting patterned fibre-optic hair and chameleon clothing. Rich kids - boys in fine silks, girls in figure hugging skin suits who could afford to stay here forever. Plus many more different individuals who had not yet spawned into a sub-culture with a label. They all danced to different tunes. Each one wearing a small headset. The man on the podium slowly picked up his own headset and gently rested it on his head. He closed his eyes and began.

WELCOME TO THE ALL NIGHTER, his voice boomed through a thousand minds.

Everyone stopped and stared at him.

There was a sudden crescendo of noise as the Mind-Jockey cleared his mind, then, soft lilting rhythms as he began. The lights dimmed in accordance to his thoughts. Holo-graphics started to shower the crowd with flowers and multi-coloured petals. A few people began to sway. A sudden, extreme bass line broke through the lilt, sending meteorites across the dancers heads, loud back beats accompanied the bass, then, the whole floor erupted into a frenzy of dancing as the white noise hit them full frontal. Lights spiralled crazily across the floors, walls and ceiling. Holo-pictures imploded and exploded upon the retinas of those who could see. The friers, pent up time bombs of raw emotion, threw themselves at each other, relishing in the quick pain they caused. Flyers were just blips of colour while the rich kids stayed along the walls popping pills so they would withstand the sexual antics they would go through during the session. The place was alive and buzzing.

The only person not wearing a headset stood at the bar ordering another drink. Everynow and again he would stare over his shoulder at the multi-hued dancers. Occasionally he would shake his head. His name was Pyro and he looked average.
DRUG SQUAD, boomed the voice as a group of five heavily armed drug officers appeared in the centre of the dance floor before mutating into a twisted sculpture of radiation. A soundless cheer reverberated across the dance floor as the music continued. Pyro started to walk through the crowd. The MJ flicked his eyes open. Briefly. Saw Pyro. The music stopped. He'd seen his face before.

A brief holo-graphic image of Pyro floated halfway in the air before disintegrating.

Where? He closed his eyes. The music started again in a loop before going off on a sideways track, curving itself around the interior of the dome.

Pyro smiled. He'd been spotted. Pyro noticed everything now. The smallest of detail. From the corner of his eye he saw a skin suit being peeled off and the boy getting his first drug induced feel of a female body. A fibre optic lay unnoticed on the floor. A frier dribbling from the left side of his mouth. An oxie lay dead on the floor his oxygen tube, severed, laying next to him. Pyro looked again at the podium, noticed another brief holo-graphic of himself, confronting him before his face split into an insane smile. His head ripping apart then his whole body exploding. Pyro walked through it. He'd been used. He was going to make sure it never happened again. Pyro smiled.

The MJ could feel Pyro's mind in his own. He didn't need to open his eyes anymore to feel the malevolence heading towards him. He changed his tune.

A flash of gunfire. A flyer lay dead, a hole punched into his stomach by the barrel Pyro held. He spun round again, firing twice. Two more dancers fell. He was doing it again. Taking advantage of his position. Pyro didn't want to waste another human unless it was absolutely necessary. But, he also valued his own life above anyone else's.
The MJ started to shake, sweat beading on his forehead. He could feel death around him. Thoughts started to bombard his mind. The face was familiar but he couldn't figure out from where. What did he want from him?
The music changed suddenly into a mind-numbing barrage of interference. A single note starting to rise in frequency as Pyro started to climb the steps of the podium, his barrel pointing upwards. The dancers had stopped attacking him. The MJ was getting worried.

Face.

Death.

Freeform.

Drugs weren't illegal. Almost everything was legal.

Gun. Up. High pitched sound swamping everything else. The dancers held their heads trying to stay with the fading beat. A rich girl began to bleed from the nose as two rich boys humped her on the floor while two more held her down so she wouldn't struggle. Another one injected her with heroin to loosen her up.

A frier died screaming into his own mind as his worst fears suddenly holographed before his eyes.

Fear.

Death.

Paranoia.

The MJ couldn't open his eyes. He was trapped to what was going to happen. Cold steel on his forehead. A cold rush shivering through his body. He could feel the rottenness creeping through his body.

Face.

Operating.

Knife. Scalpel. Lights.

MANIPULATION, the voice whispered across the front of the MJ's mind to be amplified across a thousand minds.

An oxie found he couldn't breathe. A flyer exploded in mid-air.

YOU TOOK A PART OF ME, Pyro said.

The face on an operating table, brain exposed, spliced. Transplant.

Achieve the ultimate sound.

I WANT TO SEE IT.

Blackness. No lights. A thousand screams as a thousand dancers experienced death as an art form.

Almost everything was legal except brain operations. Manipulation was a crime in the future.

He changed the tune.

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viewed from a different perspective

They stood in the sun smoking cigarettes continuously, crushing them out on the ground with their feet before lighting up another. One of them sat down. They looked like old peasant Mafioso, metaphorical guns hidden under their worn suit jackets, guarding the don's villa in the heat of a Sicilian summer.

This was England at about three in the afternoon. I lay on the grass finishing my eighth cigarette of the day, watching the smoke rise lazily into the sky, being wafted about on the gentle breeze which would occasionally cool me down. We were waiting. I stared across at the young chap sitting on the steps that led into the village hall. He to was smoking, dragging slowly on the filter of the half-smoked cigarette, breathing the smoke in heavily before letting it out in a continuous stream of white dirt. We'd talked this afternoon. About reality, politics and drugs. He'd told me of his first, and only, LSD experience. The way he'd seen his friend turn into Jesus. The way he'd gone down on his knees to the nativity until someone had told him to move along. His paranoia of being the only one left alive on the earth, his pathological fear of the dark and his other friend he seemed to be covered from head to toe in blood. He described it as going 'sideways'. I believed him.

Now, he stared lazily into space. Thinking. A sad, lonely expression on his face. What were his thoughts? I'd told him of my theory of how there are three realities - the ancient, modern and future worlds. All surviving continuously, and, occasionally, overlapping and spilling into each other to create the world we live in now, a confusing matter of all three. He just nodded and agreed with me. I lit another cigarette. The lad reminded me of those people I had known on the ward in the '70's. Blank expressions, staring into the four blank, antiseptic walls as though they held the secrets of life or a way of escape. There were about twenty on my ward. They lay sprawled at any one time on their beds. The majority of them smoked dope, puffing on it slowly in quick succession of another joint. They smoked weed like I smoked Marlboro. They were always in a dream state. Not caring who they were or why they were here. I was offered it but I declined, I liked to keep a level head. Know what was going on and. most importantly, my own identity. I couldn't talk to them, I would only receive nullified answers. They were to deeply entrenched in their own little worlds to bother about me. I usually walked around the grounds of the hospital. I liked it outside, even more so when it was wet or cold, it gave you some perspective on the world. A vast expanse was more demanding than a closed in room, it made you want to try harder. Be allowed out to find other spaces to investigate and inhabit.

The lad had told me LSD hadn't changed his life like some people said it did for them. He still wanted to try opium though. He relished the idea of experiencing new places out of reach of normal perceptions, in much the same way I enjoyed my open spaces of reality. We talked and smoked in the sunshine, slowly our skins would turn a light shade of brown and we could claim we had tans.

One of the Mafioso sat down, rubbing his balding head. Coughing as he dragged on his cigarette butt. Spitting a globule of green phlegm onto the ground, staring at it for a few seconds before wheezing to his conclusion. The other one slowly walked around the gravel, looking and nodding at me in-between his smoke. He was Polish, his only means of communication was a cheeky smile, the word 'alright' and the universally recognised thumbs up sign. He scratched his greying beard, absently, before pushing his brown checked cap, the type worn by orphaned children in old black and white films, off of his brown forehead. I nodded back at him and gave a quick smile. He wandered off.

Life was meaningless unless you have a purpose. It was like the drying phlegm on the ground, it had no purpose except to bring the slow death of the individual. It would stay on the ground for a few minutes before disappearing with the heat. I scratched my wrists, stared at the scars on them. I'd put my hands through a plate glass window while I was in hospital. Everyone had thrown something through those windows, they were there to be vandalised. I got fed-up one day and decided to be different. I put my hands through the window. It's a strange thing trying to express your individuality.

The lad blamed the '70's for everything. Ruining the drug scene, making it go mainstream and into a business, rather than an underground junkies paradise like in the late '40's and '50's. The slow decline of the 'teenager' and 'youth culture' began in the '60's and now it was spiralling into itself, producing a disaffected youth who were disillusioned but with nothing to rebel against. 'It's all been done', he said. I nodded when he told me this and continued smoking. He wanted to be part of an underground sub-culture in order to express his individuality. I asked him if that was the reason he had taken the LSD. 'No.', he replied, 'I was at a crap party, so I did something to liven it up.'

A large fat woman appeared at the door, she peered around herself, her morose, critical face showing scorn and disgust at everyone. She flicked her cigarette butt, the long stem of ash dropping to the floor. She clicked her tongue before returning to the shadowy confines of the building. She transmitted her own faults onto everyone else. Never realising she was dis-liked and made fun of by the others. A fly buzzed past my face.

I watched the young mothers pushing the prams outside the gate. Sometimes a schoolkid would run yelling and swearing past the entrance, slowing down to stare at those within before quickly running off to join the safety and comfort of his friends. I longed to be free like them again, part of a mainstream. I used to be when I'd worked as an accountant. No worries, a comfortable easy life. Now, I was no better off than the Mafioso who had nothing left except their own demise through smoking related illnesses.

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memories of a dead woman

Dark.
Light.
Colour.
Shape.
Form.

Her eyes were open. Information flooded in. Detailing a room full of memories. The sofa where she'd first made love to the man who'd left her for an artificial. The brown stain on the white, worn rug by the fireplace where she'd spilt coffee when she'd first moved into the third floor apartment. One of many in a high-rise tenement in the middle of the bustling metropolis which London had become. A city which was almost unrecognisable after all these years. She'd sat in the black, angular chair once every morning for half an hour to try and improve her posture and muscles. It hadn't worked but routine became habit forming. Instead she'd worked out in the tenement gym and taken muscle-boosting drugs to build her to her 'ideal physique'. Light was coming in through the window that covered a whole wall. One single plane of glass designed to filter out the harmful UV rays and radiation that the scientists told everyone were in the sun's rays. The light was almost pure white. A solid artificial thing which struck the room instead of the gentle golden rolling light of the sun from her childhood. Everything, which had been good, was deemed bad now. No one was safe from rumour although superstition had been eradicated. She remembered sighing. She was an old-fashioned romantic, longing for the days when everything was simple. Her dad used to travel to work not plug himself into a computer console and work from home. Everything was catered for. No one need leave their apartments. Food could be ordered via touch screens. Everything. Which is why she had to get out.

Go for a walk.

Death was strange. It wasn't darkness. It was something. There was something within the dark. She knew it to be black therefore she was still sensing. As though she was asleep but her eyes were open to the darkness of her room. No noise reached her. It was a void. With something in it.

Her.


She was here. Where was here? A last thought. Striking the pavement. A dull thud. Brief flash of red. Black followed then this darkness.

Light.

Brief flash.

Another.

Light.

She could see. A memory of opening her eyes without actually doing so. Just light filled her. She allowed her 'body' to float on it, become as one with the light. Her being was being imploded to make herself up. She could think. Everything was a memory. A man's face, indistinct, floated briefly in the light then was gone. A couple naked, sweating as they were seen in the last throes of sexual fulfilment. She had a memory of pleasure but no actual feeling. She knew she was dead.

Outside the light was slightly duller. She'd refused the 'outdoor suit' which Arnaud had offered her.
"Dangerous out there without the suit," he'd advised her, "taken your pills have you?" She nodded. Lying. She never took her regulation pills. Just her muscle boosters. She watched as a bird flew from one tree to another. It's quiet song being heard by her alone. It was the only one she saw all day. The area was devoid of life. Nothing but concrete and metal. Gleaming and glinting in the sun. Neon logos displayed their wares loudly from side streets. She chose one. Walking down it slowly. It was darker here, overshadowed by metal walkways linking the tenement blocks, covered in glass so you weren't exposed to the reality outside. She stepped over a puddle of something she presumed was water. A neon sign flashed on and off in front of her. It was a bar. An old fashioned swing door displayed as its entrance. Dark, dirty and dingy but real. Nothing seemed fake about it. She entered.
The smell hit her first. A fusty smell of sweat and beer. It took her eyes a while to adjust to the gloom of the antique neon lighting. There was a wooden bar against the far wall, a man stood behind it, wiping glasses, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, its smoke adding to the atmosphere of the bar. A couple sat at the table in front of her, both were dressed in leather body suits, lips pierced and matching mohicans. She walked forward, round the tables, slowly.
"Yeah." the statement emitted from the bar-tender's mouth as she neared, his eyes fixed on her low cut dress which exposed her breasts perfectly, stopping just above the nipples. It was the latest fashion.
"A drink, whatever." she replied, standing at the bar.
He nodded and pulled her half a glass of a golden liquid.
"On the house." he grunted as he appraised her figure again. This time she nodded.
"Stranger." a new voice, male, by her left ear, "meeting someone?"
"No." she replied as he came into view. Rough, tall. She smiled.
"Good." he said and joined her.

The first colour which became apparent was red. Somewhere to the left of what used to be her field of vision. Blue was next followed by yellow. A sudden spectrum appeared as though viewed through a prism of glass. The rainbow flashing past her eyes. She could blink. She could remember blinking, tried and failed. The colours sped past her vision. They frightened her. The speed. She wanted to re-coil from them, step away but couldn't. There was no form to them, just splotches of colour like a child's painting. Random acts of chaos. In the world of her reality she'd have been able to have sold the tableau in front of her for millions if not more. She wanted to sigh, shrug, do something but only memories and brief flashes of these actions assailed her as she thought of them.
Much later or it might have been earlier, black lines seemed to form outlines around the splotches of colour. They were beginning to resemble shapes of some sort. The original red splotch could've been a chair, indistinct as though seen through a film of water. Or a haze of addiction.
She definitely knew she was dead.

The man led her back to his apartment. It was in the lower regions, under the sub-ways. She liked him. He excited her. They entered his apartment. She ended up staying for four days. She used his out of date computer console to stay in touch with work. They ate proper food cooked on a cooker or sometimes he used the microwave. It was back to basics. Primitive. She loved it. At night, or at least his clock told them it was night, they made love on his dirty, stained mattress he used as a bed. Then she'd hook herself back into the console, just keeping tabs on all her investments and imports and exports. That's all she did, hook in, eat, hook in, make love. She liked him.
They made love for the last time in the afternoon of the fourth day. She felt their heat, sweat then she had to hook back in. She needed her fix. He killed her while she was checking her offshore investments. Left her attached to the machine, her body lying broken on his concrete floor which was part of the pavement. He walked. Walked out of her life.

It was her apartment. She knew that. Could see everything. The red chair, yellow sofa, slight green of her touch and console screens. Everything had a colour, shape, form. The filtered light was whiter than cleanliness. Something seemed wrong though. She stared harder.
The chair clicked into sharp focus. Jumping forward in her vision. She had a close up of it now. She relaxed her vision. The chair filtered back to its original position. She stared at the sofa. The same.

Click.
Filter.

Something had been wrong with them. They'd been made up of dots.
Pixelated.

Dark
HER
light
EYES
Colour
WERE
shape
OPEN
Form

Information flooded in.

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suzi

They stared into each others eyes.
They glimpsed their own reflections.
They realised they were staring at themelves.

She looked at him from across the table. He was staring out of the window onto the streets of Paris, at the people milling around inside of their own realities, each one oblivious to the lives playing themselves out within the cafe. Two different worlds seperated by a barrier of glass.
He held his cigarette in his right hand, elbow resting on the table, poised, the smoke slowly curling towards the impenetrable gloom of the ceiling. He looked faraway and slightly tired. She thought back over the last couple of days. Paris.

They'd arrived on a whim. A romantic notion which had caught their respective imaginations. They'd arrived the day before, just as the sun was setting and the evening was closing in. It had been snowing as they walked out of the station - staring across the road at the numerous cafes and hotels which flooded the pavement with their subdued lighting and the, occasional, neon signs signalling 'VACANCIES'.
Perfect.
She was overwhelmed by the sight of it all. How everything seemed so big. Unreal. A true fantasy land from which to escape the normal, humdrum, existence they'd managed to pull themselves away from.
Nobody noticed them as they crossed the road.
Nobody cared who they were.
Everyone else was to busy living their own lives to care about anyone else. They were truly lost. She smiled. This was just to perfect - nothing this good could ever last forever. She looked at him then, in the street and wondered what he was thinking. He lit his first cigarette and sucked on it, blowing the plume of smoke into the icy air. He sighed, as though he was meeting a long, lost friend for the first time. He smiled. He was content. It took them about half an hour to find a hotel room.
Alone.
At last.

'Hotel Caliafornia' melted into 'Everybody's Talking' on the cafe radio.
They'd made love. A whirl of sensations. Like the last pieces of a jigsaw they'd fitted together so, at last, you could see the whole picture, but, one piece always seemed to be missing.
The next day they'd wandered the streets. Getting lost. At least they were together. The end of the day found them standing on the banks of the Seine, staring at the Eiffel Tower, shrouded in mist on the other side. It was almost dusk. A magical time as the strips of metal were lit up. She stood there staring at it. Her mind in a dream. This was what it was all about.
The awe.
The mystery.
She never wanted to leave. They were trapped in this bubble. Together. If they left the bubble would burst, throwing them back into reality where nothing seemed to work out, and, no one ever beleived what you said. This was where it would work. Stay in the fantasy and never come down.
They walked back to the hotel, arm in arm, both content within the bubble. Surrounded by grandiose architecture which kept the real world at bay - buried underneath piles of concrete. They were safe and together.
Now, as they waited for the train to take them home she wondered what it would be like to re-enter reality. Her bubble was close to bursting and she knew that he did not want to leave. He wanted to stay. Here. With her, but, if she left then so would he. He flicked his eyes towards her. He mouthed 'I love you', before returning his gaze to the streets. She smiled. She couldn't, wouldn't, beleive him. Refused to believe that he could love her when she obviously cared and loved him with all her heart. It was never reciprocated. Only in the movies.
Love.
It existed here but not where they were going back to. He wouldn't stay with her for long. Immediatly they set down on familiar territory. They couldn't love you in the real world. It wasn't right. Not how it should be. Only in dreams and inside of your own head did they love you. This weekend he would've loved her because they were in Paris - it was what you did in Paris - loved someone. The thing to do. It could never last. Never. She wouldn't let it happen.
She turned her head to stare out of the window as he turned to look at her. What was he thinking ?

They stared into each other's eyes.
They glimpsed their own reflections.
They looked into each other wanting to belive

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the black marble

"These days one has to work so hard. You don't have the time or energy to take girls out for dinner, especially when you can't guarantee you're going to pull at the end of it. It's so much easier to get a girl to dance for you and chat with you in a club."
Ticket To Writhe, Telegraph Magazine, 20 October 2001

-------

From a bird's eye vantage point, nestled up amongst the metal supports and hot, neon lights of the ceiling, you look down upon the multitude which forms the night time clientele of The Black Marble nightspot. The noise which floats towards you is a mixture of business deals, work related bragging and relaxation. Men are crammed up against a long, wooden bar. Sweaty hands hold out used notes of various denominations, voices yelling for more alchohol. Just behind them is an empty space, devoid of any furniture. This area is sparsely populated, mostly men either waiting for friends or their turn at the bar. Once a drink has been purchased the man enters no-man's land and heads through it searching for a table. If he is lucky then his friends have already gone on ahead and secured themselves a prime spot in front of one of the small circular stages. Here they will sit, shouting above the background music, guzzling alchohol and waiting. As you allow your gaze to wander across the heads of those below you notice a table, already occupied, near the center stage. One of the men seated is waving his arms around, his jacket has slipped onto the floor. You swoop your vision towards them, soaring it over the hubbub below you.

"So I said no way," the man gesticulating remarked, "if you want me to close the deal then you have to let me do it my way."
The other men around the table nodded their agreement.
"I mean, if I can't close a deal then what the fuck am I good for ?"
"Nothing." one of the others said, a grin spreading across his face.
"Exactly, if you can't do the job then there's just no point."
"I agree, you spend five days a week, fourteen hours a day," the new speaker nodded his head, "and for what ?"
"For nothing, you get paid, but no one gives a damn about you."
"As long as the work is done they couldn't give a fuck about who is doing the work."
"You're just there to ensure the person up the line gets the congratulations and the bonus."
"Tonight is the only time I have not got to be at work."
"Me to," the speaker coughs, "I've got to be back in work tomorrow to finish off what I should be doing tonight."
"But no way are you going to miss tonight.."
"Exactly, if I missed tonight then what would I do tomorrow ?"
"Nothing, because we'd all be back at work."
"To right, so I'd be sitting at home, getting drunk on my own."
"Sad."
"Really sad."
The background music fades to a whisper. The men at the table all turn to look at the stage in front of them. There's a cough over the loudspeakers.
"Gentlemen, please welcome on stage," a voice booms across the seating area, "Miss Julie !"
The men who see her clap and cheer.
A girl, dressed in a black dress, tight at the chest and flowing at the hips, steps onto the stage. A spotlight illuminates her as she walks, slowly, towards the centre. The background music raises in volume, the beat cascading off the walls as all eyes rivet themselves on Miss Julie.
She begins to move her body slowly to the music. Her hands sliding over her body, cupping each breast in turn and rubbing her nipples until they stand erect against the silkiness of the material.
Her hands slide downwards, moving inbetween her legs and pushing the dress towards her body before moving out again, her legs bending at the knee as she moves downwards.
She winks towards the table.
One of the men loosens his tie. The one his ex-girlfriend brought him for a birthday a few years ago.
Another of the men gulps his beer down, not noticing that it is warm and almost flat.
The girl leans forward, the straps of her dress slipping down to her elbows, her legs going back, knees touching the floor, arms outstretched, arse raised higher than her head. Her breasts appear to be globes of milky whiteness against the black material. The men feel they could reach out and touch them, reminding them of when they were kids, staring at the moon, imagining that if they climbed onto the roof of their home they could touch it. Now they know they can't touch the moon, but, maybe they could touch them. A fantasy which was in easy reach. Not an impossible dream. The only thing preventing them fulfilling it were the rules of the club, and, no matter how much they wanted to, they daren't break the rules. To break the rules would ensure there would appear a void in their lives. Then all they would have to look forward to was work. Nothing else. No friday nights. Just work.
"After this I'm going to ask her." one of the men says.
"Really ?"
"Yes."
"I wouldn't be able to control myself."
"No problem, you just sit there and she does all the work."
"But what if, you know..."
"I don't know, I've never done this before."
The others nodded.
The dress slips down to her waist. Her breasts are exposed, the nipples erect and red. The men cheer and applaud. They act as though they've never seen a naked woman before. As though this is a novelty. Something secret. Something unheard of. Something they shouldn't be doing.
"She's alright."
"Alright ? Is that the best you can say."
"She's a real woman."
"Lucky you can't have her then."
"What's that supposed to mean ?"
"You wouldn't know what to do with a woman."
The men laugh.
With a final wiggle the dress drops to the floor, the girl turns herself around making sure everyone gets a look at her body. A few men whistle, most of them have now taken off their ties and undone the top button of their work shirts. They are now relaxed, thoughts of work dissipated from their minds as they await the next girl to replace the one in front of them.

"Here she comes." one of the men nudges his friend.
"Excuse me." he says as she passes their table.
"Can I help you gentlemen ?" she asks, stopping and looking at each one in turn.
"I'd like some, " the man swallows, "company."
"Sure, follow me." the girl starts to move away, towards the back of the club.
"See you later chaps." the man rises and follows the girl.

"Why do you always act shy, James ?" the girl asks him as she leans forward, her breasts passing just in front of his face.
"They wouldn't understand." the man says, his voice coming in short gasps.
"But you are here every night." she says, leaning back, running her hands through her hair.
"They don't know that." he says quickly, his hands twitching slightly where they lay resting on his knees. He knows he can't touch her. Nights he has sat here and managed to control the natural impulse to reach forward and stroke flesh upon flesh.
She glides a hands across her flat stomach, the tips of her fingers dipping underneath the top of her white g-string.
James licks his lips.
He must control himself.
She moves forwards, straddles him, covers his face with her breasts. Rubs them up and down. He can feel the warmth. Wants to stay there. Doesn't want to think of work but needs to. Needs to control. Control.
She steps back.
Turns round.
Leans forward, legs straight, reaching down to touch her toes.
He closes his eyes, not wanting to see her perfectly shaped bottom being offered to him.
"Open your eyes, James." the girl commands him.
He opens them.
Her face is level with his own. Her eyes are averted downwards. He can now feel the warm stickiness going cold.
She watched as the stain grew on his designer suit. Waited for his body to relax before disturbing him.
"Same price." she says as she stands up and holds her hand out.
James reaches inside his trouser pocket and pulls out a few notes. He hands them to the girl.
"Keep the change." he says, trying to smile.
"Whatever." she says, turning from him, picking up her dress and disappearing through a door in the wall in front of her.
Another man walks in. He looks younger than James. Behind him another girl follows him in.
"You finished ?" the new arrival asks James.
"Sure." he says as he stands up, "all yours."
"Looks like you had a good one." the newcomer glances at James' trousers.
"Fuck you." James says, staring at the younger man.
He nods.
James walks out, back into the music and the dancing. He decides to go home. He's had enough for tonight.
He needs to relax.

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