"Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one." Albert Einstein
Every day we come across situations and thoughts which are difficult to digest, express and explore. When this happens I turn to ficto-critical writing in an attempt to wrestle with these topics ... here I will share some of these short stories with you.
Every day we come across situations and thoughts which are difficult to digest, express and explore. When this happens I turn to ficto-critical writing in an attempt to wrestle with these topics ... here I will share some of these short stories with you.
SHOT
He breathes in long and hard, puffs out his chest and counts, one, two, three. It may only be lunchtime but this is the ninth person to stop in the street to take a photograph of him. “Snap away young man, snap a-way.” He scoffs. “Oh boy I must be looking fine in this winter sunshine!” he says without a hint of humility. “Did you see him? That guy in the glasses and black coat?”
“What guy in a black coat?” She said insinuating his ego must be playing tricks on him. Again.
“There he is! There!” Gesturing to the pavement on the other side of the street. “Quick come to the window!
She looked and she could see the man in the black coat but still felt the need to say, “Is the mirrored glass confusing you again? You’d think at your age mate you’d have mastered the laws of reflection by now.” She will never let him forget the time he thought he was being papped when actually it was someone admiring the building across the street. “I hope he caught your good side?”
“All of my sides are equally fabulous darling. No thanks to you.”
“What do you mean no thanks to me?”
He knew exactly how to get under her skin and play with her insecurities. She finds this kind of egotistical behavior simply vile. Why must he be this way, he knows how she feels about the street, about passersby, about being noticed and appreciated and yet he still does it? Why must he rub it in? Counting. Seriously, must he really count the number of people that admire his stature? What kind of narcissistic, media-maniac is he?
“Well you just remember that the next time anyone thinks enough of your cold hard exterior to actually venture over your ‘fabulous’ threshold, then let’s see how far you get without me shall we.”
As the arguing continues so does the intrigue, and today is the day, it turns out the guy with the glasses and the coat was a location scout. The vans arrive early, before sunrise, and there are lots of them. They are full to the brim with fancy gear - cameras, tripods, and lighting rigs, cranes.
“They are here! They are here! OH BOY, OH BOY! Its finally time. I. Am. So. Excited.” He reads the logo on the side of the van - Movie Productions Ltd. He has made the big time, he thinks to himself. “I’m gonna be in a movie, I’m gonna be in a movie” He chants.
She mutters under her breath “Here we bloody go.” As she can feel his ego inflate with every piece of equipment unloaded. Movie Productions Ltd spent the next five hours setting up to shoot external shots of the street, with him as the focal point, apparently he was designed by a famous architect. Although they had their personal issues she could she could not deny his strong lines, his presence, his character but what she could not understand was why nobody was interested in getting deeper. Why weren’t they exploring her rooms, her corridors, her heart and her soul, why was only his exterior face of importance to them?
“Damn people, when will they understand that he is the manifestation of all things walk-pastable. Idiots. But me, I’m….” As a giant crane swung past her with a camera strapped to the end of it, her train of thought was interrupted.
He breathes in long and hard, puffs out his chest and counts, one, two, three. It may only be lunchtime but this is the ninth person to stop in the street to take a photograph of him. “Snap away young man, snap a-way.” He scoffs. “Oh boy I must be looking fine in this winter sunshine!” he says without a hint of humility. “Did you see him? That guy in the glasses and black coat?”
“What guy in a black coat?” She said insinuating his ego must be playing tricks on him. Again.
“There he is! There!” Gesturing to the pavement on the other side of the street. “Quick come to the window!
She looked and she could see the man in the black coat but still felt the need to say, “Is the mirrored glass confusing you again? You’d think at your age mate you’d have mastered the laws of reflection by now.” She will never let him forget the time he thought he was being papped when actually it was someone admiring the building across the street. “I hope he caught your good side?”
“All of my sides are equally fabulous darling. No thanks to you.”
“What do you mean no thanks to me?”
He knew exactly how to get under her skin and play with her insecurities. She finds this kind of egotistical behavior simply vile. Why must he be this way, he knows how she feels about the street, about passersby, about being noticed and appreciated and yet he still does it? Why must he rub it in? Counting. Seriously, must he really count the number of people that admire his stature? What kind of narcissistic, media-maniac is he?
“Well you just remember that the next time anyone thinks enough of your cold hard exterior to actually venture over your ‘fabulous’ threshold, then let’s see how far you get without me shall we.”
As the arguing continues so does the intrigue, and today is the day, it turns out the guy with the glasses and the coat was a location scout. The vans arrive early, before sunrise, and there are lots of them. They are full to the brim with fancy gear - cameras, tripods, and lighting rigs, cranes.
“They are here! They are here! OH BOY, OH BOY! Its finally time. I. Am. So. Excited.” He reads the logo on the side of the van - Movie Productions Ltd. He has made the big time, he thinks to himself. “I’m gonna be in a movie, I’m gonna be in a movie” He chants.
She mutters under her breath “Here we bloody go.” As she can feel his ego inflate with every piece of equipment unloaded. Movie Productions Ltd spent the next five hours setting up to shoot external shots of the street, with him as the focal point, apparently he was designed by a famous architect. Although they had their personal issues she could she could not deny his strong lines, his presence, his character but what she could not understand was why nobody was interested in getting deeper. Why weren’t they exploring her rooms, her corridors, her heart and her soul, why was only his exterior face of importance to them?
“Damn people, when will they understand that he is the manifestation of all things walk-pastable. Idiots. But me, I’m….” As a giant crane swung past her with a camera strapped to the end of it, her train of thought was interrupted.
USED
I get used everyday. It’s my purpose in life I suppose. I am perfunctory and facilitative, a platform for the work-a-day. He bought me in 2012. I was a mistake. An impulse buy direct from an abandoned warehouse. He looked us all up and down; Russian, Turkish, Polish, he chose me. I was transported, along with the others in the back of truck, no blankets, no water. We were packed in like cattle, the thought of a better life, of love and care and attention keeping us going. I arrived, tired. It took 2 men to carry me up the narrow stairs of his office; they laid me down in the middle of the room and instructed my owner that I was now his responsibility. I was signed for. My life began. Or so I thought.
I was pushed into the corner, away from the window, with only a blinking 60W bulb for company. It wasn’t long before I was buried under piles of pretentious crap. Fancy pens, naff engraved paperweights tedious executive toys; he would tug at it and stare blindly as the vibration resonated through my fibers, upsetting my balance. I had buried dreams of being anything other than his crutch, until he got a new secretary. Then things changed. Things always change when there is a new woman on the scene.
I had seen kind-hearted Marjorie leave; she stroked my dark skin as she switched the light off one last time. Things hadn’t been the same between them since the last time they argued. She raged, I couldn’t hear the details but the tone inferred a certain amount of inappropriateness. With their backs facing the glass partition, they hid the choreography of their lips from the curious passersby. She was clearly upset; I could feel her distain, her pain. I could interpret their gestures, and I had seen it all before. I am an unintentional voyeur. I see it all, but not out of choice, believe me, it can be very uncomfortable - fun is eliminated when the choice is removed.
I liked Marjorie; she kept things in order, and would help me clean up when he’d bleed his black ink over me. He, on the other hand was messy, thrived on chaos and the state of our home communicated his careless nature to all who entered. Marjorie’s replacement on the other hand was skittish, standoffish even; she cared little for the order of the place. She, Fern, as I soon discovered, seemed more concerned with her own appearance, than that of our home. Her perfume particles shower over us, her hairspray sticking to my polished skin, a magnet for dust and uncleanliness - a death wish for my warm green leather mask. How dare she, I do not belong to her.
She did not care, to her I was invisible, a mere pedestal to perform upon. Her skirt would ride up as she carelessly perched on my stained veneer, her newly modified hemline catching on her stockings. I felt my purpose shift as she crossed and re-crossed her legs. I was becoming involved, a third-party accomplice, unable to voice my dissatisfaction at the violation I could sense brewing.
The warmth of the 8.30am latte delivery I so readily awaited and accommodated, was steadily escalating. I used to look forward to feeling the heat pass through the mulched paper fibers and into my leather but Fern saw to the end of that. As she arrived so did the slim line, sleek, reusable, shiny, apparently leak proof Keep-a-Cup, no chance of sharing warmth with that selfish, modern, monstrosity. The latte now came with a buttery accompaniment, exchanged by hand for the price of a wink. Cheap.
The building tension, flirtatious and anxiety inducing was almost crippling. The late nights became more frequent, as did the vapid, unnecessary visits and phone calls. “Could you pop in for a moment, I need to talk with you about (insert bullshit).” Fern would rush in, excitedly, brushing past his chest purposefully. But then it all changed. The tension I had felt, the pressure I had borne, was nothing in comparison.
It was 9.15pm; the others had gone home, to their wives and children. This time there was no pretense, no flirting and no foreplay. They pressed up against me, her shoes coming loose with the force. Were they in love? Did it matter? As she raised her knees, he swept at my red, dead coffee cup, the leaky pen and the clinky-clangy toy and they crashed to the floor. The rhythm was excruciating, like an incessant drilling, deep, into my soul. With every thrust I felt more sullied. Shortly after, for a moment I felt a release, a lifting of pressure. My release lasted a mere nanosecond, replaced by the weight of their infringement. I get used everyday. It’s my purpose in life I suppose. I am perfunctory and facilitative, a platform for the work-a-day.
I get used everyday. It’s my purpose in life I suppose. I am perfunctory and facilitative, a platform for the work-a-day. He bought me in 2012. I was a mistake. An impulse buy direct from an abandoned warehouse. He looked us all up and down; Russian, Turkish, Polish, he chose me. I was transported, along with the others in the back of truck, no blankets, no water. We were packed in like cattle, the thought of a better life, of love and care and attention keeping us going. I arrived, tired. It took 2 men to carry me up the narrow stairs of his office; they laid me down in the middle of the room and instructed my owner that I was now his responsibility. I was signed for. My life began. Or so I thought.
I was pushed into the corner, away from the window, with only a blinking 60W bulb for company. It wasn’t long before I was buried under piles of pretentious crap. Fancy pens, naff engraved paperweights tedious executive toys; he would tug at it and stare blindly as the vibration resonated through my fibers, upsetting my balance. I had buried dreams of being anything other than his crutch, until he got a new secretary. Then things changed. Things always change when there is a new woman on the scene.
I had seen kind-hearted Marjorie leave; she stroked my dark skin as she switched the light off one last time. Things hadn’t been the same between them since the last time they argued. She raged, I couldn’t hear the details but the tone inferred a certain amount of inappropriateness. With their backs facing the glass partition, they hid the choreography of their lips from the curious passersby. She was clearly upset; I could feel her distain, her pain. I could interpret their gestures, and I had seen it all before. I am an unintentional voyeur. I see it all, but not out of choice, believe me, it can be very uncomfortable - fun is eliminated when the choice is removed.
I liked Marjorie; she kept things in order, and would help me clean up when he’d bleed his black ink over me. He, on the other hand was messy, thrived on chaos and the state of our home communicated his careless nature to all who entered. Marjorie’s replacement on the other hand was skittish, standoffish even; she cared little for the order of the place. She, Fern, as I soon discovered, seemed more concerned with her own appearance, than that of our home. Her perfume particles shower over us, her hairspray sticking to my polished skin, a magnet for dust and uncleanliness - a death wish for my warm green leather mask. How dare she, I do not belong to her.
She did not care, to her I was invisible, a mere pedestal to perform upon. Her skirt would ride up as she carelessly perched on my stained veneer, her newly modified hemline catching on her stockings. I felt my purpose shift as she crossed and re-crossed her legs. I was becoming involved, a third-party accomplice, unable to voice my dissatisfaction at the violation I could sense brewing.
The warmth of the 8.30am latte delivery I so readily awaited and accommodated, was steadily escalating. I used to look forward to feeling the heat pass through the mulched paper fibers and into my leather but Fern saw to the end of that. As she arrived so did the slim line, sleek, reusable, shiny, apparently leak proof Keep-a-Cup, no chance of sharing warmth with that selfish, modern, monstrosity. The latte now came with a buttery accompaniment, exchanged by hand for the price of a wink. Cheap.
The building tension, flirtatious and anxiety inducing was almost crippling. The late nights became more frequent, as did the vapid, unnecessary visits and phone calls. “Could you pop in for a moment, I need to talk with you about (insert bullshit).” Fern would rush in, excitedly, brushing past his chest purposefully. But then it all changed. The tension I had felt, the pressure I had borne, was nothing in comparison.
It was 9.15pm; the others had gone home, to their wives and children. This time there was no pretense, no flirting and no foreplay. They pressed up against me, her shoes coming loose with the force. Were they in love? Did it matter? As she raised her knees, he swept at my red, dead coffee cup, the leaky pen and the clinky-clangy toy and they crashed to the floor. The rhythm was excruciating, like an incessant drilling, deep, into my soul. With every thrust I felt more sullied. Shortly after, for a moment I felt a release, a lifting of pressure. My release lasted a mere nanosecond, replaced by the weight of their infringement. I get used everyday. It’s my purpose in life I suppose. I am perfunctory and facilitative, a platform for the work-a-day.
