Stories For Homes

Hello there,

I'm not the best at advertising or promoting myself, but I contributed a short story to an anthology of writing called Stories For Homes, it’s available now on the Kindle, and all proceeds go to Shelter, a housing and homelessness charity:

http://www.amazon.com/Stories-for-Homes-ebook/dp/B00E8767XU/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1376054330&sr=8-1&keywords=Stories+For+Homes

There should be a hard copy version coming out in due course, but if you’re one of those e-reader types (I won’t judge you) then you can get your mittens on the virtual version now. It’s a great book for a great cause.

My story is called Leaving Home and was written specifically for the anthology, and I shall (probably) never post it on here, so if you want to read it - and many other pieces by a range of writers - then you'll have to buy the book, and help those facing homelessness in the process!

Many thankingyous,

Owain

The Opposite Of Omniscience

On the day he was born he arrived into the world screaming.  Everyone in the delivery room clutched their hands to their ears to try to dull the shrieking noise, as did everyone in the hall, as did everyone in the hospital, as did everyone in the town and the county and the country and on the planet.

                It took a while for everyone to adjust, and a little longer for everyone to realise precisely what was going on.  However it quickly became clear that absolutely everyone on the planet had an innate awareness of what little Gary was doing.  When he took those first steps everyone knew, when he said his first word everyone knew.

                But the shared consciousness wasn't invasive, more like something you could dip in and out of at will, but major events in Gary's life had a greater prominence than average occurrences.  For instance, the first time Gary cut himself by accident the howling wall of upset caused a number of traffic accidents and for Spain to miss an all important penalty in the world cup final.

                It was, for the population of Earth, primarily up to them how much they knew about Gary.  To begin with this mass telepathy was a startling new intrusion upon their thoughts, but it quickly became background noise.  Finally, most people were able to filter things, a casual thought would give you a quick update such as Gary's brushing his teeth, but prolonged concentration would allow you to get right into Gary's immediate internal thoughts.

                People quickly allowed Gary to become part of their daily lives, to begin with there was a certain degree of celebrity afforded to him, but his mother wasn't so keen on the idea and, with the support of some government officials and a handful of psychologists, convinced the world to just let Gary be.  Indeed, growing up knowing that everyone knows what you're doing might make you a little paranoid.

                It couldn't be helped though, the first time Gary tried to masturbate he could hear all manner of laddish woops and cheers coming from the street outside, which put him right off.  He found he was never chosen to answer questions in class, instead his teachers would just dismiss his hand and say "No Gary, that's wrong."  Or in P.E. he'd never get passed the ball because, as one team-mate told him; "Everyone knows who you'll pass it to."

                Gary, who had managed to remain largely oblivious to his unique predicament, just thought that people didn't like him.

                To some extent this was true, a lot of people - often those more susceptible, and ultimately who struggled to block Gary out - very strongly felt that Gary was a terrible burden on their lives, his meaningless thoughts constantly clogging up their precious brainwaves twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.  Gary's mother would always open his post and carefully dispose of any hate mail, whilst the local police had a specific unit tasked with watching Gary - without Gary noticing - in case somebody tried to assassinate him.

                This had peculiar advantages, because the first time someone tried to bully Gary they found themselves at the mercy of five armed police officers.

                But then there were people who loved Gary, who if he thought about something he wanted it would suddenly arrive in the mail the next day, and then, strangely, everyone at school would be extra nice to him in the hopes of coming around to play on the brand new games console he hadn't told anyone he'd just received.

On his eighteenth birthday his mother finally decided it was time to tell Gary about his gift.  Managing, and hiding, the out-pouring of love and hate, or even indifference, towards her son had become practically impossible and Gary himself was growing increasingly more anxious, yet remained unable to put the pieces of the puzzle together to form the complete picture.

                So it was that Gary found out that everybody knew, or at least could know, what he was doing or thinking at any given time.

                "Everybody?" Gary asked, his face scrunched up in bafflement, a large shiny '18 today!' badge pinned to his shirt glinting in the light.

                "Yes Gary, everybody."

                "Even people who don't speak English?"

                "Yes Gary."

                "But how do they know what I'm thinking?  I think in English."

                "Well, you see, this is the wonderful thing about your gift Gary, it showed us that human thoughts are merely translated into language by our brain, but they exist in a sort of non-descript electro-chemical form that anyone, of any language, could perhaps interpret."

                Gary was confused as to why his mother had become so excited by this, but little did he know that his mother found the scientist who had explained all this to her to be very attractive and they had discussed this recently after they had made love for the first time.

                "We've studied people's brains and animals brains and -"

                "Animals can hear me too?" Gary squeaked with alarm.

                "Yes.  We've studied their brains and scientists think we might be able to translate animal thoughts into human language and vice versa, wouldn't that be amazing?"

                "Wait, but, people know when I'm eating my tea or going for a walk or playing with mysel- with my toys."

                His mother looked sheepish, she explained everything to him as best she could, though despite sleeping with a scientist she wasn't much for science.

                "So people can watch my dreams?  They can read my mind?  They can hear my desires?" Gary wasn't waiting for answers, he was listing off every thought that popped into his head and then; "It's not even worth me asking is it -" I mean I can just think these questions and you'll hear them, right?

                "Yes Gary," his mother said, then clapped a hand to her lips, having never allowed herself to respond directly to his telepathy for eighteen years she was surprised at how quickly, now the confession had been made, that she had broken her own ruling.

Gary's life changed considerably, at first he was too scared to go outside, staying in his room, worrying.  But he soon came to realise that no matter where he was and no matter what he did people would still be able to know and that it was irrelevant if he spent his life wallowing in his own bed or running around make a fool of himself.

                However despite optimistically psyching himself up, the actual act of being out in the world knowing that everybody knows everything you are doing and thinking was intimidating, and suddenly things he had taken for granted began to make sense to him.

                For instance, Gary now realised why his caramel latte was always ready for him to take away the moment he stepped into the coffee shop.  He also realised why his bank refused to let him have a cash card and he had to always take out his money in person, and he realised why Judy Miller hadn't wanted to have a second date with him after he had thought about her quite vividly that one evening.

                He was confused, he was unsure if perhaps his own thoughts were more depraved than any one else's, he thought he might ask Mel, at which point his phone rang.

                "Trust me, you're not more depraved than anyone else," was the first thing Mel said when Gary answered.

                "Um, thanks."

                "I just think it's odd that people can be so judgmental, I mean, we all think weird shit."

                I guess people find it offensive because it's someone else's weird shit.

                "Exactly."

                "What?"

                "I was agreeing with you."

                "But I... oh, yes... Could you do me a favour Mel..."

                "Could I not respond to things you haven't said out loud?"

                "Yes."

                "Don't worry, I just guessed that was what you were going to say that time."

                "Thank you."

Later that day Gary was wondering about the nature of his friendship with Mel, and ultimately reasoned that she respected his absolute honesty, whether intentional or otherwise.  Gary could never censor his thoughts, things just occurred and people would read them, and he was never a cruel or malicious person, the intent of everything that came to Gary's mind was founded in positivity.

                Naturally, there were sometimes the fleeting shrieks of lunacy that bore no genuine resemblance to his actual feelings and merely popped into his brain as a by-product of the world that surrounded him.  These thoughts would be dismissed by Gary as quickly as they arrived, therefore nobody eavesdropping on his mind could surely misconstrue them for his actual opinion.

                Prior to the present, despite whatever Gary may have said aloud, Mel would always know what Gary genuinely thought and Mel must have respected Gary's honest opinion more so than anything else.  This made Gary realise that perhaps the Gary he chose to present to the world wasn't perhaps the best Gary he could be?  Maybe his previously paranoid perception of a socially acceptable person was not entirely true to himself.

                Gary made a vow, from this day forward, to not amend or adjust his opinions to cater towards a self-imposed worry that someone might disagree a little, that those repressed desires to be a little sillier, to dance to the music, to climb the tree, to splash in the puddle and kick up the leaves, to share his honest perspective and not be afraid to debate and challenge his friends, or stand up for strangers. 

Beyond the positive experiments that Gary's ability had brought about, there was interest from the military as to how Gary could be weaponised.  Various organisations had been training agents in ignorance, conditioning them to be able to filter out all thought bar their objective, with the idea that Gary could be kidnapped and tortured, and the ensuing pain signal sent out to the entire world would cause enough of a distraction for an agent - if he were unable to sense Gary - to perform some covert task without hindrance.

                Unfortunately without actually kidnapping and torturing Gary their hypotheses could never be tested, and if Gary were to be kidnapped the entire world would know about it instantly.  (None of this had occurred to military until long after millions of pounds of research and development had already been conducted).

                To some extent, outside of those that despised him, this had granted Gary a level of invulnerability.  He was once stopped on a street late at night by a mugger who himself was so emotionally overwhelmed by Gary's sense of fear that he had a panic attack and Gary had to take him to the hospital. 

Over time Gary began to realise the true potential of his ability, it had, up until this point, always seemed like the cruellest and most pointless of gifts.  He had decided to go on holiday with his friend Mel, and having finally arrived in Almalfi they headed to a café in the square and were perusing the menu.

                The waiter had approached, and, as far as Mel was concerned, he had greeted Gary with warmth and familiarity, noting down his order and then turning, expectantly to Mel, who stumbled through some broken Italian, at which the waiter shrugged, turning expectantly to Gary who repeated Mel's order in the same pidgin language, but this time the waiter nodded and noted Mel's request.  The waiter said something, laughed and placed a friendly hand on Gary's shoulder, to which Gary grinned and nodded.

                Once the waiter had gone back inside the café, Mel turned to her friend and whispered; "What did  he say?"

                "I don't know," Gary confessed.

                "But, what was all of that?" Mel asked, gesturing a little back and forth with her finger.

                "He must have read my mind."

                "But you don't speak Italian."

                "I know, but I don't think our waiter realises that."

                "What do you mean?"

                Gary explained to Mel what he had understood from his mother, and her partner Karen - the scientist, about thoughts not having any language and instead being an abstract signal that is translated by our minds into thoughts as we perceive them.  At the purest level, a thought is the same in everyone's mind, but we all adapt our thoughts to suit however we communicate, be that into English, Italian, Dutch, Sign, Morse code, binary, hieroglyphics, meowing, whatever.  If all thought was expelled and received un-translated then every creature on the planet would be able to understand one another.

                Mel, despite knowing Gary - she hoped - better than anyone else, wasn't entirely convinced.  Despite the fact that Gary would never, perhaps could never, lie to her, she sometimes suspected that Gary could be misinformed.  In this instance she was doubtful and wanted to somehow test Gary's ability.

                Looking around she noticed a cat sat on a second floor window across the street.

                "Ok, see that cat over there, don't say anything out loud, but I want you to convince it to come over here and, um, jump up onto the table."

                Gary, enjoying a moment of showmanship, cracked his knuckles and turned towards the lazy cat licking its paws.

                Almost immediately the cat looked up from its wash and tried to follow the sound it heard as if a fly were buzzing around its head.  It then proceeded to hop back inside the room behind it and was gone from view.

                Mel and Gary waited, but the cat did not reappear.

                Their waiter did though, placing the coffees they had ordered down in front of them and saying something in Italian to Gary.

                Sorry, I don't speak Italian, Gary thought.

                The waiter was taken aback, looked suspiciously around and then, in a slower voice said; "But, er, we were speaking... the first time..."

                Yes, Gary thought, You're able to read my thoughts.

                The Italian waiter, as if trained in cliché, made the sign of the cross and returned to the kitchen muttering something incomprehensibly to himself.

                Mel laughed, shaking her head, when suddenly a cat leapt up onto their table and a elderly woman - who had hurried across the road after it - apologetically picked it up and carried it back to her flat, chastising it and wagging her finger.

                "Poor thing," Mel grinned.

                Gary smiled, "The waiter or the cat?" 

For the rest of their holiday Gary was able to use his projected telepathy to allow people to understand him, despite having no knowledge of the language.  Though Gary could not understand when others replied in Italian, he was able to communicate effectively enough, letting them know - with varying reactions - that he could not speak the language, but they could hear his thoughts.  Some of them, like the waiter, were alarmed by this, whilst others felt a surge of understanding, having heard about Gary before, but never expecting to actually meet him.

                Gary began to realise that, even though he was unable to always understand others, there was something comforting about being able to, at the very least, let people know what you're thinking regardless of any other barrier that may be attempting to hinder understanding.  He started to think that he should, having been able to let everyone know what's going on in his mind for his entire life, begin to take an interest in what's going inside other people's.

                Once he returned home he enrolled in various language classes, he didn't just limit himself to spoken language, but started learning Sign and Braille.  He was fortunate and found he had a natural aptitude for language, it helped that his teachers would listen to his thoughts and could, with great ease, see where Gary was struggling and help him overcome those hurdles.

                But conversely, Gary, as he began to work with those deprived of various senses, started to discover a new, and peculiar, side to his powers.  Gary was able to communicate the thought language of sound or sight to those who lacked either or both.  He was able to project a hitherto unknown concept towards them, as opposed to being like someone attempting to explain hearing or sight to a congenitally deaf or blind person, it was an entirely realised representation, in fact, through Gary a deaf or blind person could experience the world in a way that their condition denied them.

                And with this, Gary began to listen more, so often had he become consumed by his own thoughts, and ultimately burdened the world with a potentially constant stream of his paranoid, self-obsessed witterings that it was a new and surprising experience for him to really listen to others.  His own thoughts began to not consume himself so much, he started to realise how little he had previously looked outside of his own bubble, his little world that worried about the expectations of others, and he started, instead, to think about putting his thoughts to a better purpose, one that ultimately could help and unite people, as ultimately, Gary had realised, we do all speak the same language.

                Gary felt a weight lifted from him, as if unshackled from himself, and a responsibility to an audience of his own creation.  From those early neurotic and formative childhood years, through to his late-teenage angst about people's perception of his mind as more tawdry than those around him.  At long last his brain did not feel like something he should have to be ashamed of.

                He was thinking about this, smiling contentedly, sat in the park with his friend Mel.

                She looked at him, sitting there happily.

                Gary turned to Mel.

                "What are you thinking?" she smiled.

                Gary leaned forward and kissed her, and she kissed him back, and it wasn't just the kiss that made him happy, it was the fact that she wasn't anticipating it.

Control

I write this from a position of great privilege, able once again to use words to communicate ideas.  I can describe what I like to you, and it can be understood.  Perhaps what I write will convince you to change who you are and how you behave?  Or, perhaps you will feel the need to challenge my views, engage me in a debate?  Or, maybe you shall just ignore this altogether and go on with your life?
    Regardless, it is such a joy to be able to write this down, to have you read it, to know that this exchange - whatever the outcome - has taken place.  Knowing where we have come from, it brings tears to my eyes, sends a chill down my back, I am so glad we have this.
    Many have forgotten, but not too long ago only the most powerful retained the ability to communicate an idea.  Over time the need to converse had been supressed, desires had been replaced, subtly forcing a shift away from more esoteric and provocative pursuits, to those that generated fleeting - albeit sensuous -experiences.  A quick shot of something stimulating became much more highly prized, through careful marketing, than things that offered prolonged stimuli.
    It was a dwindling process, one that began with a gradual removal of ideas from books and songs and films, replacing them bit by bit until all that was left were non-descript occurences, lights, sounds, colours, that were scientifically designed to provoke a response in the participant without offering anything more nourishing intellectually.  People, slowly, unknowingly deprived of information adjusted their palattes to this new entertainment and ultimately no longer craved something that would engage their brains; brains which had begun to atrophy.
    Yet the powerful maintained their intellectual pursuits, and they continued to research ways in which to keep the population at large obedient to their carefully constructed means of satisfaction.
    It became almost Pavlovian, people worked like animals for treats, they completed a task and were rewarded by a light show or a pleasing sound, sometimes a pleasant aroma or a tasty, non-descript biscuit.  We had ceased to have, what we once called, a soul, and instead were little machines, powered by the basest form of desire.  Indeed, the stimulus would always provoke our most primal desires, our bloodlust through meat, our sexual urges, or giddy thoughtless laughter, like tickling a baby.  All these feelings they were able to encourage through these programmed displays, or chemical catalysts, and we, merely content to indulge ourselves, lapped it up.
    But the powerful were naive in their own pursuits, for they did not create anything new, merely content to amass more and more power, they ultimately drowned in their own selfishness and wealth, letting their imaginations atrophy.  Eventually all they were was the gluttonous heads of the colonies, an army of drones beneath them, not a true thought to share between the lot of them.
    So, how did we get back?  How did we reclaim that which we had forgotten made us truly human?
    It was simple, given time, if you wind things one way it will, like a spring coil, one day snap back.  There were anamolies, little squeaks of - what they would have once called - dissent, and fear managed to quell this to begin with.  Those who saw the questioning act would retaliate, unable to attribute consequences to their violent actions, they would literally stamp out a little anarchist at the first sign, taking pleasure in the grim satisfaction that an adrenal act of violence can offer the simplest and most ignorant of people.
    But you can't keep quieting the voice, and over time, painfully slowly, it grew louder and the powerful did not know how to contend with it.  For in the end, there is nothing stronger than a good idea, and that is what they lacked, and as others became able to wonder why things had to be the way they had been made to be, they began to see the strings and follow them up to the hands that puppeteered them, to the control that they never knew existed, and rather than just cut their strings they pulled on them, they tore their puppet-masters down from the sky and let them see the world of their creation, the horrible world that we had all accepted.
    So language was born again, and whilst I must revel in its ressurection, I can't help but worry that we have learnt nothing from our suffrage, that one day we will complacently let the powerful herd us once more, and the voices of dissent will be dismissed and muffled, and when we finally come to realise the control that has imprisoned us, we will realise that we no longer have the means to communicate about it.
    I hope you realise the gift you have, that I can write this and that you can read it, and however it may stir you, I hope that we never find ourselves controlled again.

Anhedonia

They all shouted Surprise! and someone stretched out a cake towards me, a big beaming smile on their face illuminated by the glow of the candles.  I dread to think what expression those multi-coloured candles brought to light on my own mug.
    A friend of mine once told me that I have a Fuck-Off vibe, and this was why I found it hard to make new friends from strangers when we all went out.  I would sit enviously, perched in the corner of a nightclub, staring out into the little gatherings of people, laughing, chatting, getting to know one another, and many, ultimately, slobbering across one another's faces.  I was partially envious, but also full of contempt.  Perhaps the second expression registered more strongly, and that is why nobody approached me to engage me in conversation?
    I don't think contempt is the face lit up by the birthday candles - 30 of them - I find it hard to muster any kind of feeling at present, because despite their joyous cheer this is anything but a surprise.  Sure, I wasn't expecting it, but a birthday surprise is, to some extent, an entirely forseeable inevitability.  Of the limited range of things that could occur on a person's birthday this is probably one of the most obvious.  Especially on a so-called milestone like this.
    It's hard to be surprised when you think about things as much as I do, I mean, there's very little that can genuinely surprise you.  If you're crossing the road the chances of being hit by a car are greatly increased, so you think about that, you look both ways, you do your best not to be hit by a car, but there is always a chance that you will be, so it can't really come as that much of a shock.
    More so than that though, if a friend is late I will begin by assuming the worst - they have died somehow - I will list the many ways in which they could have conceivably died - hit by a car, mugged and stabbed, a slate fell from a rooftop, choked on some food, etc. - and follow this train of thought to reasons why they may be late, right up to them just being not very good at time keeping, so that by the time they do arrive I have already imagined every possible excuse they could possibly have presented outside of the absurd.
    Only the absurd is left to shock me, and things like that never happen, and I mean it would have to be truly bizarre, not even the arrival of an alien species could throw me, because it is entirely probable that one day this might happen, and, unless the aliens took on a form so utterly impossible to imagine there is no way that I would feel at all disturbed by their presence.
    I think I began to really take things in my stride when she broke up with me by accident.  A mis-sent text, it all seemed so inevitable, I guess suspicion can act as a cushion, plus I'd had my heart broken before.  It didn't really bother me, I figured that she should be happy, and if she's not happy with me then that's fine, she should leave me and seek happiness wherever it may be.  So, for me, it was all so simple, meet up, finalise the termination of our relationship, and move on with our lives.  I was surprised she cried when we hugged goodbye, but some people cry when leaving one job to go to another better one, such a strange emotional expression.
    When I felt the urge to cry, which I haven't in years, I would stop myself, it seemed like such a waste, usually because I was alone, so firstly why should I perform these crying theatrics for an absent audience, and secondly I should probably save my tears for something really devastating, and not just splurge them frivilously on my petty depressions.  But, events that other people might perhaps consider devastating came and went, and I did not cry.
    However, it's cheap of me to wish to only use my emotions to effect others, though I'm not sure how else to ever derive a reaction from people.  I feel so utterly unnecessary as a part of any human interaction, that I have often found myself slowly edged out of circles of friends, often literally - a conversational circle was close in front of me, meaning I am standing on the outside, facing someone's back, peeking hopelessly over their shoulders.  Whenever I speak the enthusiasm on other's faces seems to visibly vanish, leaving a bemused expression expecting me to say something to reassure them that I'm not devoid of character, and consistently I fail.
    Why, I think, should I even continue to attempt to become a part of groups that don't want to incorporate me?  But how will I ever meet someone if all my efforts are in vane?  Though why bother at all?  I enjoy my own company, I can entertain myself and I don't need the approval of someone else to live my own life, do what I want to do, and why should I have to share my time, my needs?  But, the choice to share, that'd be nice.
    They cut the cake into large segments, start passing it around on paper plates, I try my best to avoid taking a slice, I don't really like cake, but there's this pressure upon me - as the cake was made, without my consent, for me - that I should eat a piece and enjoy it, offer approving noises, and everyone will watch, take photographs, and make ridiculous cooing sounds as I am forced to shove a stodgy lump of icing encased sponge into my maw.  I don't want to, but I oblige.

Lovesick

I had been drinking.  I was depressed, things weren't going so great with Lucy, we'd had one of those awkward conversations that feels like a precursor to us breaking up.  Right now, it seemed so inevitable, it almost felt like we had broken up.  All I could think about was how much I loved her, how much I didn't want things to be over.
    So, sitting here, toast growing cold on the plate in front of me, cup of tea doing little to dull the throbbing in my head, and me, swimming in shame that I went out last night, got drunk, and kissed a girl I met in a bar.
    There's a text on my phone from her, though I'd drunkenly put her name in as Aabygull, I'm assuming I meant to type Abigail, but I daren't read it, because it seems - from the few previewed words - so full of joy and happiness, and I know already that I have to tell her it was just a thing, just a drunken slip, because I'm in love with Lucy.
    I ignore the message for too long, to the point where I'm starting to think that maybe I can get away with not replying, but then another text comes through, and it shows no diminished sense of optimism, instead it looks like she's suggesting evening plans.  I'm going to have to respond.
    Sure enough, it's a buoyant, bright message asking if I want to go to the cinema.  I hate cinema dates, you have to sit there in silence with this person you barely know, concerned that the film isn't entertaining them, that you're not entertaining them, but, at the same time, you don't want to talk all the way through the film.  On the plus side, at least it gives you something to talk about afterwards, but what if they don't really like talking about films?  You assume they must if they're going to suggest a cinema date, but... Wait, it doesn't matter, I've just got to make this a clean cut thing, we can't keep seeing one another, I made a mistake.
    But I hesitate, she wants to see a screening of John Carpenter's The Thing at the Prince Charles Cinema, I'd love to see it on the big screen.  Maybe, I think, I can negotiate this into a friendship, I mean, I've kissed girls before and become friends with them, good friends.
    So I reply, say that'd be good, we arrange to grab a quick drink beforehand.
    Lucy sends me a text an hour later, apologising for the argument yesterday, though I didn't quite frame it as an argument, we were just discussing what we wanted for our respective futures and the contradictions that threw up, which had ultimately lead me to believe that things would have to come to an end to allow either of us to move on with our lives, at least as far as our non-romantic ambitions were concerned.  Yes, in the midst of that debate I was thinking about things cynically, I was taking our relationship for granted, and it was only afterwards that the full potentiality of what I stood to lose presented itself clearly in my mind, and it was then - as I drank - that my love for Lucy was ever more cemented in my head and my heart.  But, it's ok, I've got everything in order now, I know what I want, and this is a good sign if she's reaching out, offering the olive branch.
    Abigail texts back, a happy face made of letters, she says she's looking forward to seeing me and puts an upper and lowercase kiss at the end.  This is going to be difficult.
    All I can think about when Abigail and I meet up that evening is Lucy, I'm aware of myself conversing with Abigail, but it feels responsive rather than an engaged process, nevertheless she doesn't seem to be aware of my distance.  We have a couple of quick beers, head to the cinema, watch the film, half-way through I can see her hand moving gradually from her lap, onto the arm of the chair and then fingertip-toeing onto my arm, down towards my fingers, and then we're holding one another's hand.  When I return her grip she lets herself ease back into her seat a little more.  I wish Lucy was here instead.
    Lucy and I meet up the next day for lunch, and I'm overwhelmed with guilt and shame, I can't look her in the eye because I keep remembering Abigail's hands on my skin, how, when we kissed goodbye, they pulled me ever so close to her, clutching my shoulders, and I let the kiss linger, I let it mean more than it should have, but not to me, to me it was just a nice kiss without deeper meaning, but how do you explain that to someone, someone who seems so smitten.
    She can sense my awkwardness, and it affects her immediately, makes her uncomfortable and suspicious.  She keeps asking me what's on my mind, and I can't tell her.  Eventually, I'm so evasive, that Lucy suggests we take a break, and I don't think for a second it's what she wanted to say, I feel like my attitude today has coerced her into having to make this decision, and I suddenly come to life, pleading with her desperately, but it's unconvincing.  She doesn't cry, she doesn't show any emotion, she just gets up, gives me a sterile hug and a kiss on the cheek and leaves.  When she's gone tears silently fall from my eyes and refill my coffee.
    I'm so full of virulent anger, chastising myself over and over in my own mind, standing on the tube, trundling furiously home, and I can feel it infecting the other people in the carriage, I can see the little huffs and puffs of nuisance becoming magnified when someone opens their paper into another's personal space, or turns with a backpack nudging the back of someone's head, or bitchy little remarks made under the breath as someone doesn't ask to get by and has to lurch awkwardly over someone else.  I know that I am responsible for this atmosphere of contempt, that it is radiating out of me like a leak at a nuclear power plant, that I am the toxic centre of this little universe.
    By the time I've reached my stop I feel like my reserves of hatred have run dry, and they've been replaced by a longing and despair, that somehow I've been the root of all this, that over the past two days I've sabotaged my own life obliviously.  I feel, even moreso than I did previously, that Lucy is lost to me, that love is gone from there, it has moved somewhere else, it still exists but it has been passed like an infection from Lucy to another, and I realise that the love she gave me I have given to Abigail, that I was foolish, drunk and cowardly, that instead of being honest with my emotions, going to Lucy when I needed to, I spread the disease of love to Abigail and I must deal with the consequences.  I cannot get her to love another, we don't choose who we love, but we must be responsible for those who love us, and I resent Abigail, I resent her for the love she has for me, because she is not the person I want to love me, but I'm afraid of being alone and maybe, until the love is cured, I can cope with this.  I shall let the love wither us both, because that is all it is good for, like all emotions love is a wasting disease.

Careers

All the hands had shot up in the air, each face lit up with eagerness, backs stretched and bottoms lifted off the seats, as if not being picked to answer would cause them to lose their flimsy purchase.  Helen was quite pleased, she had become all too used to an awkward shuffle, an audible inhalation, or a pensive murmur whenever she usually asked a group of children what they want to be when they grow up.
    Carefully, with exagerrated precision, she pointed to one boy whose name was Jamal.
    "I want to be famous," Jamal beamed.
    "Ok," Helen nodded, he must have misunderstood the question a bit.  She picked another child, a girl called Susan.
    "Me too, I want to be famous as well."
    Quickly glancing around the circle, and at the slackening in those raised limbs, she began to suspect that every child was planning on saying that.  Just to make sure she picked another.
    "I also want to be famous," Magda bashfully smiled.
    Helen lowered her clipboard, usually she would have written each child's respective choice in the box next to their name, but today they all remained blank.
    "Does everyone here want to be famous?"
    "Yes miss," a boy called Ben said, "who doesn't want to be famous?"
    Helen sighed, clicked her tongue, "It's not really a career though.  That's what today is about, finding out what career you'd most like to pursue."
    "What career did you pursue, miss?" Susan asked, well-meaning but ultimately infuriating.
    Helen, you see, had wanted to be famous too.  When she was eleven she'd even been in a few adverts after a friend of her parents, who worked as a casting director, 'spotted' her at a birthday party.  Helen had gone to drama clubs after school and at the weekends, been the lead in a number of school plays, taken singing classes twice a week, and auditioned for a great number of stage schools.  But the auditions were unsuccessful, she found herself doing a theatre course at a mixed discipline University instead, though she never really wanted to be a stage performer.  Sure, she managed to wrangle her way into a few student short films, but the scripts were clunky and whatever efforts she made to raise their level just seemed futile at best.  Ultimately she grew bored, her course offered nothing of any real interest, and besides she'd made some good friends and started seeing this guy called Luke, and she thought there could be a future there.  They'd talked about moving in together after University, somewhere just outside of London to suit both their needs, because despite her apathy the only career path she really knew to pursue was her desire to be a television actress.
    So, when Uni was over, and after a couple of Summer months spent at their respective family homes, they moved to a small flat in Walthamstow, where she would commute into the city to try and attend whatever auditions she could scavenge and he would drive into Essex to intern at a nature reserve.  But Helen didn't really care for any of the roles she went for, she restricted herself to only film work - be it shorts, adverts, television, low-budget features, etc. - and each part seemed to offer nothing, no progression, no light at the end of the tunnel, and she was conscious of unintentionally building a resume littered with bad credits.  She would look at the filmographies of actors she admired and see the intelligent progression of their career, compare her age to theirs and worry that it was already too late.
    This began to impact her confidence, she knew she'd need to get a job to tide her over whilst she waited for the good parts to come her way, but she wasn't so keen on doing something ultimately unfulfilling like waiting tables or tending bar - it's not that she felt like she was above these jobs, having done both whilst at Uni - so she got an administrative role working in an online shop.  She made some good friends there, friends who really helped her when Luke ended their relationship after four years together, she moved into a house share in the city and then one of her housemates, who worked for a recruitment agency, told her about a vacancy within the company.  A little tired of the online shop's somewhat repetitive nature, and looking to work face-to-face with people, she applied and got the role that would eventually lead to her going out to schools to meet children to help advise them on pursuing the right career for them.
    "What do your parents do for a job?" she asked the children, leaning forwards and gesturing enthusiastically, trying to steer the conversation in a more productive direction.
    "My mum's an accountant, and my Dad mends electrics." Jamal responded quickly and proudly.  After a pause he, unprompted, added, "But my mum's mum was a baker and her dad was a taxi driver, and my dad's mum was a nurse and my dad's dad made furniture."
    "Very good," Helen was rather impressed, she couldn't really recall what her own father did, something in an office somewhere.  "That's impressive that you know all that."
    "But miss," Jamal innocently began, "doesn't that prove that what your parents do won't matter to what you do?"
    She was somewhat stumped, but then her point hadn't really been to give the children a sense of heredity through employment.  However, it had made her think about the cautious intake of breath that her mother had taken when she told her that she was moving near to London with Luke to pursue acting.
    "Are you sure that's a good idea?" her mother had said.
    Helen had rattled off their joint plans in defense, but also in defference, hoping to convince her mother - through her passion for the notion - that they were really going to try, that this would be the best for both of them, her and Luke.  However, ultimately it had proved to be their undoing, they found themselves two ships merely moored at the same port and with each day the different worlds they sailed into became their real homes, the city for her and the wilds for him.  But Helen couldn't help but think that her mother's sharp intake of breath had been the light to the touchpaper, sewing a seed of the doubt that would push distance between them both, like a tree busting through concrete.  But she never could have comprised, that's what she reiterated to herself there, right there in that classroom, she couldn't have turned her back on her acting and stayed out in the countryside for him.  Then she looked at herself, as much as anyone can, and remembered that she was not an actor, that she had not been to an audition in six years, that at first she had placed that dream on the backburner expecting to come back to it, but as time had wore on the notion had gathered dust, like so many things, and ultimately become like tinnitus, forever there, unchanging, and over time subsumed.
    Having been on that drama course she did know people who had continued to work away at it, hoping to become an actor, and she'd seen them rewarded with varying degress of success, and she'd felt bitter about it, sneered and wrinkled her nose when she'd seen the name of one of her contemporaries in the credits of some tv show, willing them to fail, sometimes masochistically watching the show and hoping that their performance would be so monumentally awful as to restore her faith in her own abilities, even though they lay dormant and unused.  If she could not be an actor then no-one, nobody but the pre-established celebrities she had no chance of knowing, could be.  It felt ok for the famous people she didn't know to be famous, because it was almost as if they were born that way, molded and designed for fame, they weren't one of us, they were Olympian Gods carved from stone, birthed into greatness.  She knew that she was formed from humbler stuff, so it didn't seem unfair that they had it all and she had nothing.
    That's what the reality shows changed though, they began to give people the impression that fame was a raffle prize, that celebrity was inside us all, and if we were there, if were lucky, it would be unleashed and once it had been discovered our trajectory would be unstoppable.
    But that was a world alien to Helen.
    These children though, they lived every day expecting some mysitcal talent scout to walk anonymously into their school, point their finger and hoist them - like a cuddly toy in an arcade machine - out of their squalor into a dazzling, glittering world of wonderment.  They could wave goodbye to their friends from the window of the limousine, perhaps come back to parade their newfound celebrity in their faces, bask in the fawning adoration, especially of those who once doubted them, laughed at them, pushed them over in the playground.
    Helen decided to grab a coffee from the staff room at the school, she stood listlessly stirring her sugar into the ill brown liquid, her mind wandering.  A teacher approached her, Ms. Cotton, recognising Helen from a previous visit.
    "How were they today?"
    "Hmm?" Helen responded, a little startled.
    "How were the children in the group, they've had a strange time recently."
    "Strange, why?"
    "Oh, did nobody tell you," Ms. Cotton edged the kitchen door closed a little, "one of their classmates died a few weeks ago."
    "Oh God, that's awful."
    "I don't know if you'd remember him, Billy Hudson."
    "Yes," Helen lied, she could barely remember any of the children she'd just been talking to.
    "Well, it's such a terrible thing, he took his own life."
    Helen froze, she was genuinely taken aback, "What?"
    "Oh, he was depressed, he was part of the school drama club and this casting director came in, looking for boys for this new film or something, well, Billy had a casting, but he didn't get the part." Ms. Cotton poured herself a tea.
    "And he killed himself?"
    "Yes," she said, adding the milk, "hanged himself with a scarf from his bunk-bed."
    "Because of the...?  Were things ok at home?"
    "Yes, as far as anyone knows, I mean, a lovely boy, wonderful student, really tragic."
    Helen finished her coffee, she talked with Ms. Cotton about other things going on in the school, about their plans for the summer, inconsequential things.
    Later that evening Helen sat on the sofa in her flat, a beer in hand, a dinner plate with the remnants of a Chinese takeaway by her side, and a talent search show on the television.
    She watched the hopeful file past the judges, each one giddy with the possibility of escape from whatever life lay on the other side of those doors, and she laughed unintentionally at those clearly lacking in talent yet full of delusion, she welled up at the awkward people who expressed unexpected abilities, or scoffed at the good-looking excitable groups who coasted through on - what the judges called - 'star quality'.
    But more than that, she wondered what any of them could hope to gain from it all, what did they want?  One young boy was crying in the hallway, having just failed his audition, the presenter put a comforting arm around him and thrust the microphone to better capture his sobs, and the boy wailed; "I just want to be famous."  Not earning any sympathy from Helen, but that's all any of them wanted really, they all just want to be famous, and all Helen wants is to feel better than them, that no matter what fame the successful ones may find she can feel, in the pit of her stomach, that it is a fleeting fame, a transient glory limply afforded to the naive by a triumvirate already caluclating how best to package, market and - ultimately - discard the performer singing, dancing, trying before them.
    When she was little, and the teacher had asked everyone to draw a picture of what they wanted to be when they grew up Helen had struggled.  In the end, on that day in primary school, before the casting director had unearthed her, she had chewed the end of her pen, lost in thought, trying to sneak a peek at the drawings the other children were busy scribbling.  Eventually, in an effort to try and relieve her creative block, Helen had just drawn a picture of herself as she was right there and then, no uniform or scenery, nothing to indicate any sort of designation, and then when the teacher had come around and asked her what job she had given herself, Helen had shrugged and said she didn't know.
    Ms. Cotton, earlier that day, had off-handedly referred to a five year plan, she hoped to become the head of the Science department, she had some ideas for changes she hoped to put forward when she achieved this goal, and she'd asked Helen what her plans were.  Helen had shrugged, tried to visualise herself in the future, but, like that primary school precursor, all she could picture was her as she was in that moment, nothing new.
    Fame, she thought, for those eager children, was merely a way of staying in that moment, that lazy moment, but being removed from the responsibilities of a world that refused to acknowledge.  A way to be given a gift of apathy, you don't need to try, you don't need to worry, you're famous, you don't have any problems.  To not be famous was to be burdened with everything, all the impossible misery of the world, and if that was the only alternative then that is why Billy Hudson had strung his scarf around his neck and hanged himself.  For all the good Helen felt she contributed to this world she might as well do the same.
    She took another slug of her beer and turned off the television, finding her reflection replacing the reality show, and she sat there and watched it until she fell asleep.

Selfies

She doesn't seem to be into me.  I don't know what I'm doing wrong.  I mean, we've got loads in common, and we flirted really well via messenger, but there's something off now we're face to face.  I excuse myself and nip to the bathroom.
    In the cubicle I take a quick snap of my outfit and post it: Pretty snappy?
    By the time I've finished my wee it's already got 15 thumbsup and two shares.  That's pretty good.
    I wash my hands, run a bit of extra water through my hair, touch the mirror and drag the snapshot square to frame my face, pull my most alluring expression, grab a shot and hit share.  I can feel my mobile buzzing with approval as I walk back to the table.  I've set it to chatcatch in the hopes of capturing a few exchanges, to make sure that people don't think I'm saying anything stupid.
    She's just finished her Mojito, so I order us another couple on the tabletop.
    "You said that you work in the music industry?" she smiles.
    "Yeah," I pause for effect, "I work in a record store."
    She doesn't laugh.
    "Nah, I'm joking," I glance down to my pocket, I want to see if anyone on chatcatch thought that funny or just lame, "I do P.R. for up and coming bands."
    "Cool, any I would have heard of?"
    "Probably not.  But, hopefully you will one day soon!"
    She doesn't seem impressed, I got some thumbsup for that from a few followers though.  I wish I could find a moment to nab a quick shot of her, get some feedback.  Or, maybe I can try and type-up something she says and post that.  I wish there was an update to chatcatch that posted things other people said to you automatically.
    "You work in a bar in East Ham, right?"
    "No," she smiles at the waiter who brings over the two fresh Mojitos - more of a reaction that I've got so far - and takes a quick sip, "I'm taking my Bar exam."
    "Oh, so you're a mixologist or something?"
    "I'm going to be a barrister."
    "In a coffee shop."
    "In a court."
    "They have coffee shops in court?"
    She snorts a little laugh, straw perched on her teeth, and takes a quick glug.  It feels like a little victory, I hopes she knows that - aside from the first genuine mistake - I was playing dumb.  I decide to make sure.
    "You specialize in, um, human rights law, yes?"
    "Ding! Correct.  Well done Mr. P.R."
    I mime doffing an imaginary cap humbly.  Wish I could have videYOUed that, it probably looked super cute.  Still, maybe things will loosen up a bit now.
    She checks her mobile, her face drops a little.
    "Aw, shoot! My friend is staying with my this weekend, well, I thought she was getting in around ten, turns out she's just landed.  Look, I'm really sorry," she's already gathering her things together, "but I can't leave her stranded, so I'm going to have to head to meet her."
    I'm a little caught off-guard, "Oh, ok."
    "I had a nice time," she leans forward and gives me a little hug and then heads for the door.
    I take a quick pic of myself with the two half-drunk Mojitos: Oh well, more for me... :(
    I get a shoutback: Hey, you're geotagged in Bad Soup, I'm 5 mins away, don't move!
    I reply: Ok. But don't expect the drinks to still be here! LOL ;)
    By the time Katy arrives I've done a pretty decent sweep of her profile, we've not got a lot in common really, like films and music and telly and stuff, but after earlier it's nice to have someone to drink with so quickly.
    We get on, nothing special, though I play act it up a bit, take a fair few shots of us with ever increasingly more elaborate drinks.  We head to a bar with bowling lanes and get some great pics of us messing about there too.  After that we jump into a taxi and go to a party some friends are throwing in a riverside warehouse.
    I've had loads of thumbsups and shares, not just of the pics, but of some videos I put online out the sunroof of the cab and of my reflection in the river getting splashed away by my own piss!  Someone commented on a shot of the party: Well jelz.
    The next day I wake up next to Katy, we're on a sofa still in the warehouse, I manage to get up without disturbing her and head to the bathroom.  They've got a snapshot mirror here, so I quickly muss up my hair and take a pic: Hangover face!
    LOL!
    Aw, hot.
    Oh yeah, totally ruff. :D
    Then I notice I've got a text from Anne, it says: Hey, sorry I had to dash off last night... GRR, FRIENDS!!!  But I did have a nice time, and it would be good to see you again?
    And for a second I think that's sweet and all, but then I remember how much work it was just trying to get her to seem like she was having a good time.  And I look at the thumbsup number rising next to my last picture and smile, because I don't need to try, people like me.