"Way ahead of the curve!" said a girl wearing a black beret with a ribbon on it.
"Bone... Shatter... Spunk..."
The poet looked down solemnly, his work of original verse complete. He went and had his photograph taken for a blog. The audience merged around him and pretended to dance to some music which they all they pretended to like. They flirted shy and desperately with each other.
Eight variations of alternative hairstyle.
Five types of outsider class chin.
One type of confused anxiety rooted in ideological and aesthetic stagnation.
THE EDGE OF NORMAL
"I like clothes that are edgy but I want to be normal," she said.
"Don't worry," said the shop attendant. "Shop here and we will be sure to keep you within the perimeter of normal. In the centre of the shop you will find the most normal clothing ever. Plain shirts, jeans, trainers, blouses and so on. On the middle circumference of the shop you will find polka dots, florals, and lots of things that will give you a safe flourish to your normality."
"But what is on the edge of normal?" asked the customer. “I want to know what I am able to get away with.”
"This is an example of the edge of normal," said the shop attendant.
She held up a scarf covered with lovely, printed owls.
"If you don't like owls then we have other prints of animals."
"So lovely and cool," said the customer. "The edge of normal is nice, safe and within the perimeters of my understanding. Nice, quirky and soft," she stroked the fabric. "So soft and still so normal and so safe. With this I will still be accepted within society's suitable, pre-set, fashion parameters.”
She paused in thought and looked at the shop keeper.
“Do you think I should dye my hair a funny colour?"
HOW TO BE HAPPY
The man asked me for money. I told him he didn't need it. The physical world alone would never make him happy and to attain true happiness he had to search within himself. He must go toward the divine light of every creation myth from the Demiurge to the Big Bang. All forms are shadows cast by the hot smelter of universal birth. Our souls (our very existences!) are little but impermanent, dancing embers encircled with the darkness of chaos.
The man asked me for drugs.
MRS ROAD
Mrs Road was the only human being, besides the priest and the coffin bearers, to attend the funeral of the first man to die of HIV in Doncaster. She thought the other nursing staff might have shown up or, at the very least, the boy’s mother.
A stain weasel vagrant stood at the cemetery gates. He was waving a knife in the air.
“Keep away from me! Leave me alone! Leave me alone! LEAVE ME ALONE”
His mouth gaped open, a crack-hole of bloodied teeth.
Mrs Road gave him a steady look. She said she would leave him alone but she also told him to be careful with knives as he could end up hurting somebody.
“Leave me alone! Don’t tell me what to do!”
The next day, at the church coffee morning, Marcia was annoyed by Mrs Road’s story.
“They should never have built that rehab clinic. Ruined the area. They should never have built it. The streets are full of druggies these days.”
Mrs Road told Marcia that as Christians they should be compassionate to those less fortunate.
“It's not right that they let those head-bangers out on the street!” said Marcia.
Mrs Road told Marcia that she had been to Martin Shaw's funeral, and how sad it was that his family had not attended.
“Disgusting!” said Marcia. “It’s against the laws of nature what those dirty gays get up to. God’s plague of AIDS is too good for them!”
Father Willis came in with a box of tinned sweetcorn for the harvest festival.
ETERNITY'S GIMP
The torturers had gone home again, so the Substance was able to relax its vast cube of muscle mass into a gelatinous pool.
They would never hurt the Substance. Ten thousand years they'd be stabbing it with blades, smashed it with hammers, shot it with guns and stuffed it with bombs. This last century or so had been particularly inventive in terms of abusive technological improvements. Last week they put the Substance in a gigantic microwave oven for an entire day. The Substance enjoyed feeling all scrambled inside. That internal tingle of radiation was so dominant and erotic. The Substance hoped they would put it in for longer next time to allow the radiation to penetrate the Substance deeper.
Deeper and deeper.
The Substance knew that humanity was now entering their extinction phase. When they died who would punish the Substance? Who would make the Substance tingle? When this world expired the Substance hoped it would be found again, so it could be pleasured by another species.
Eternity's Gimp.
AUDIT
"I've noticed there is still a lot of filing to be done," said Emmett Corcoran.
Emmett stands plump and old, a parody of authority.
"What filing?" I ask, lounging back in my chair.
He points at the stack of paper behind my monitor.
“That filing.”
"I’ve already filed them."
"They need to go in the filing cabinets.”
I get up and walk away.
"Wait," Emmett said. "Where are you going?"
"I've been trying so hard to have an interest in working here and now you criticise my methods! You dare to impose "order" on my filing system! How dare you?!"
"We need the files in alphabetical and date order. That way we can find our records as and when they are requested."
"Have you ever thought about what you're recording? Why we need these files at all? Why we need any of this?!"
"We need them for our accounting system, in case of an audit."
I angrily slam the stack of papers on the floor.
"Accounting for what?! And who's going to audit your arse?!"
I pull out a cigarette.
"I've told you before," Emmett said. "You can't smoke in here."
“You’re the one that’s going to be smoking Emmett!”
I light a match and
