#antoshflash

[theflashnificents]

inanimate interference... or not

I think we were halfway clambering into each other’s mouths when we realised the bed had dressed us in more clothes, laid us flat on the floor and began spring-loading on top of us, onto our futon that it had been in love with in a previous life. Me and my partner were crushed. We could not reach any emergency numbers in time, the chainsaw never resident in the bedroom and no spontaneous fires had occurred, not even though I had previously stated to my other that they made me so hot I could burst into flames at any given, in this case, appropriate, moment. I would have taken the burns, the other shouted as their bones were demolished under the fucking furniture. I had to wait in the next life to take up this issue with the ghost of our bed, but as you probably know, beds are inanimate objects in most realms and it wasn’t until we found a rift into an animate realm that the bed revealed to us that it had experienced something of a miracle that day, a gateway into sentience that manifested as crushy-passion for the futon and I replied that I too had experienced a miracle, as I had fallen in love with them, the other, that night. The bed couldn’t apologise as we quickly lapsed into a place where it was inanimate and everyone looked at me weird for accusing the now silent bed of cock blocking me in the middle of a shop called Dreams.

[theflashnificents]

inherited wave function

you could describe his pacing like waves, pacing like this phone call is his near death experience and he’s talking himself out of it by pacing a road for feet into the floor, pacing like his thighs rely on friction to remain attached to his body, they could excommunicate him at any moment and he’d be at the foot of a pacing God asking for them back, ‘in the name of all thighs holy, please return my thighs,’ he’d say, up at God, God pacing the decision, deciding, ‘no, you had forsaken pacing in the name of me for too long,’ and so he’s pacing with a wider gate now, or he’s worn down his thighs from the pace of the pacing and it’s now that his wife looks at the camera and says, ‘ever since I’ve known him, he’s paced on the phone,’ and you recall every phone call you’ve ever taken and remember that you inherited this human-wave dance from this man, that you are called out on the other end of the line by someone telling you ‘you’re walking again, aren’t you,’ and you want to correct them by saying it’s pacing, but pacing is walking, just directionless, like this phone call he is pacing out, talking into my sister, whose been screaming drug-blind in the street to the point of the curdled police lights that pick her up, she is probably pacing now, trying to not scream at him because that will make his screaming more octane and I think about all the times I called someone and they were screaming and I was lying still and in the back of my head I was still pacing or it was him, on a phone, pacing for me

[theflashnificents]

friendship test

I am not trying to disprove God. She mentions how “monkeys left alone with a typewriter for infinity would not result in them finding God or being able to invent a being of God-like stature”. This is the argument for God existing, as the monkeys couldn’t conceive of an idea such as a God and therefore humans can’t have made God up. My argument is that she’s “relying on something such as evolution, often used as the disapproval of the existence of God, to explain that we couldn’t just make God up. The argument relies on us evolving from monkeys to the point where we develop paper from their homes and sit them in front of a typewriter, to know to measure them for infinity to see if this happens. He must have put the idea there, ‘there’ being the minds of us all to do this. Aren’t we only aware of God once we’re told He exists and made all this happen.” She says her argument “isn’t based in evolution because I only attributed evolution to it because it’s what I believe.” Because I know she’s right about me being wrong, I say “it is because you’re pitching monkeys against the argument for humans.” She says she “didn’t do that.” I say “I never even denied God. I ask what if the monkeys die before their allotted infinity? What if the typewriter breaks/runs out of ink? What if it’s sabotaged by zoologists?” She says “that proves the point.” I don’t see how. I point at the gorilla-shaped shrub in the garden we’re sat in. “The only thoughts that’s had are the birds that have flown through its head. The only way it maintains that shape is because human cuts it that way. Not God.” She doesn’t agree.

[theflashnificents]

Please characterise the cranial pain:

! Half a horse, running away from a forest of medication to cool the back pain.

? Blues musician cleaning their teeth with a miniaturised hacksaw. # Tense verbs: cunting, ejecting, varocosing. / Maisy did a wrong one in the wrong thing. Maisy did a clap at the end of the funeral reading. Maisy made a Molotov cocktail and drank the fire, then wrote an album about it but instead of being sincere, made jokes about skin defects. ‘ My cousin suggesting the only reason we have a queen is, ‘because she’s Queenie, enit?’ $ The slippy physics of a greased piano being hauled upwards for recital to a lover wearing a violin dress in a box room. ‘Is this meal space-appropriate?’ was their refrain earlier in the communication.

% Sometimes, you should turn the tap off because you don’t know what desert you’re creating. * A man writing about a woman with ocean metaphors to the point where you never understand why he has fallen in love with the woman. You even doubt her existence, because all there was, was water, attributed to the vague idea of the other. ~ Tax. + A man writing about love appropriating suicide metaphors. * The past couple pains happened in the same context. Realising this is its own source of pain.

:: Waking up. Consistently.

[theflashnificents]

First Date

Saturday at 2 we agreed and on Saturday at 2 we meet indeed. The coffee place teems with the usual walks of life; business execs, husband and wife with their first born child, weight conscious teens wondering what 'grande' means and demanding to know the benefits of a soy in cappuccino over the cafe's own extra light macchiato. The place seems to be lacking in first time dates. My stomach blows bubbles, anxiety inflates. The girl I'm with is very attractive and I'm starting to think an introduction to my personality probably needed more of a suave backdrop than a place that serves coffee; even if it does play jazz and has walls lined with gazelle leather and they have one of those aroma infusing air dispensers, that emits heather incense into the atmosphere, that is sweet and dulls your common sense to a point where you feel that three pound for an espresso is really quite reasonable. Still, prospects of the date going well are feasible and we're here now. I smile at the girl to show I'm thankful.

 We sit on post-modern bean bags that support in all the right places and don't sag. We place our drinks and eats on a nearby table that is quite authentic in relation to the choice of seating design.

           “Eccentric!” I blurt much to the surprise of my company, who smiles awkwardly. “Sorry I have a pet peeve with mis-matched furniture, I'm a connoisseur.”

           “That's OK.” No smiles. The nerves start to kick in, my heart ticking like a worn out fluorescent light flickering in a scummy club toilet. The girl reaches for her cinnamon bun that I bought for her. I grab my brownie that I purchased despite how much fun the granola bars looked. I don't want come across as a hippy type.

           “So, what do you do for a living?” she asks.

           “I'm an interior designer,” I begin, “tasked with the furthering of internal beauty, excellency and potential of properties: homes, offices, flats, anything really.”

           “Seems interesting.” Seems? It's the best fucking job I've ever had! Shush shush, I tell the internalised screams.

           “Yeah, it's not bad, what do you do?”

           “I'm a beautician,” she says with pride, although inside I'm sure she's crying or lying, much like myself... Why did Clare set me up with someone with no interest in culture?

           “But that's just to support my artwork,” she continues. JACKPOT! I'm sorry for doubting you Claire. Now I have a relatable subject to discuss, without the fuss of pulling inane conversation topics out of my magic discourse top hat.

           “An artist? Fancy that! What sort of medium?”

           “Well, I have an honorary degree in the contemporary, so mostly I paint with faeces to promote activism against the endangerment of animal species..."

           I have to stop the jaw drop. Her face is painfully serious.

           "Ri...Right, well that's cool, I mean, potent." My words struggle to trickle out.

           "HA! Got ya!" Her face creases with laughter and after a seconds realisation I join her jubilation.

           "Phew you really had me there!" As her body jitters in humour, I decide I love her hair.

           "Should have seen your face! But seriously I'm a cubist at heart and even though I push the boat of art out there sometimes, minimalism is where my expression lies."

           "That's the foundation of my design work: cubism!" Not a lie.

           "No way!"

           I shake my head, thinking of what to say, where to direct our artist debate on this date that could shape her opinion on my... everything?

           "You must know the pickup line then?" I say. She shakes her head, about to drink down some of her caramel latte. Her grey-blue eyes gaze over the rim of the mug, listening and stunning. I feel my temperature running, heart beat jogging and queasy feelings easing their way into my throat.

           It'll be fine, it'll be fine just say it, my mind dictates.

           "It goes: I'd like to get all maximalist in your minimalist movement." There is the choked splurt of coffee as she snorts laughter at the ridiculous words my conscience thought were a good thing to blurt.

           "I'm sorry. Stupid."

           "Haha, it's funny!"

           "Haven't been in this situation in a long time."

           The girl's face drops. "Situation?"

           "Well, I haven't been single in so long, flirtation is not one of my strong points... And Clare set me up on this date and I wa..."

           "Date? We're on a date?"

           "What? We're not on a date?

           "Claire just said she had a mate who would perhaps display my paintings..."

           "Oh..." That stings. I'm a fool, drooling over this fantastic person, thinking I was worth one look. I can't think what to say, dismay drags my words downwards with its hooks. She looks at me, waiting. I'm shaking.

           "Umm."

           Shaking.

           "Umm"

           Breaking down.

           "Umm."

           I see her frown. Swallow the fear you twat!

           "That, that, that's fine! I’d love to hang your paintings with my designs."

           "You're sure?

           She is beautiful. "Of course, they'll go with the patterns and complement the satin..." I labour the disheartened tones in my polite groan.

           "EEE! Thank you!" She leaps from the bag of beans that is her seat. She hugs me quick and makes to split. "I'll give my canvases to Claire, then she can pass them onto you."

           "Or," my voice perks, "Or, or, I could get your number and call you next week about when to bring them over?"

           Sleek.

           "Of course! That works, thank you again!" She smiles sweet and says she can't wait for our next meet. She leaves.

           I sit. I grab my full mug of mocha choca latte which is now cold. I feel bold and secure in my allure. A second date.

[theflashnificents]

Do hounds chase fox-shaped scars?

The date I don’t go on is with a woman who has a disease she doesn’t know she has. She tells me about it whilst pounding liquorice tobacco into a pipe that is designed around the concept of a rattlesnake you can smoke. Take care of yourself, fairy boy, she says, naming a disease I didn’t know I had. I spent four hours after the goodbye taping bird stamina to my back and asking wing muscles to develop. Housemate does a lot of middle-night stomach crunches. The other is lonely. I tell her about a story I wrote where the little red riding hood character sleeps inside the wolf after skinning it and she has an ability of being an adult and a sudden child. The lecturer who read the story called it Titus Andronicus for tots. She tells me about her tattoos, her designs. Nothing about intimacy when drawing on someone. I’ll ask another someone whilst kissing their tattoos what they thought of the people who drew on them. Again, no intimacy. I’ll score her with chalk without thinking about the surgery programmes where some guy paid too much to care is precise about what to remove from someone. After realising I’ve been telling a murder story to her, I calculate whether I should be embarrassed, but she doesn’t run. She seems to weigh each concept as if I know anything. This is called learning, in some languages. When I return to other people, they ask how my date went, whoisshe, washername, whenareyouseeingheragain, doIknowher and I’ll describe the casual things and her eye darts, what disappears, imagining her stomach, she has a fox-shaped scar put there removing tissue, she’s into stripping, that it wasn’t a date. Their study of my mouth concludes that it was a date. I am yet to meet a fairy or know when the woman will die because she was unsure and everyone operating on her was unsure. It was beautiful to not take my clothes off and to talk about a murder I didn’t commit, but working out the motivations and progressions of time needed. When you walk from someone and believe it will be the last time you can call them something that doesn’t exist, I still owe her that.

[theflashnificents]

Whacking Day

It’s Chris’ birthday. He knows this because he woke up sometime before now and opened presents, had a party. He blew out the candles on the cake and his family disappeared. All went dark.                He is hanging from a tree in a park, blindfolded. He assumes it’s a park because parks have trees. It could be a garden, but he is hopeful that he will escape. Gardens tend to have fences or walls around them. It might be a walled park, but, he laughs, that would be obscene. Why would you wall in a park? That defies all purpose of a park. Park means freedom, means dirty knees, Frisbee catching, picnic ruined by dogs. It’s against nature to put a wall around it.                The knot is tight around his waist. He thinks that this must be what tyre swings feel like at the park. He hears the rustling of feet below him. Sudden light screams into his eyes, it has been dark forever. He is surrounded by a mob of piñatas. They are clutching baseball bats. He looks around their rainbow bodies, their paper-fur bristling in the wind.                “I can explain! Mum bought me the last one. I had to break it open. All my friends were cheering me on. Why aren’t they here too?”                The piñatas shake their heads. A triangular horse steps forward. “Chris. It’s your birthday. They’ll get the same treatment soon enough.” All of the animals smile and step forward, glaring with vendetta-eyes, tapping their bat ends.                “But I hate piñatas! I didn’t even want one this year! I said I was too old to-“ The horse places a palm over his mouth. It smells of sherbert.                “Now, Chris, there’s nothing you can say. You split my wife in half earlier. You enjoyed it. I’m going to try and do the same.”                Chris screams as the horse blindfolds him again. The air fills up with dull thuds.

Afterwards, the piñatas walk home, fur bloody, singing the hymn of Whacking Day.

[theflashnificents]

Generic Michael Bay Plot Synopsis/Script Treatment  for 'Insert Title'

Generic White Man with stubble and abs walks into Starbucks with Stereotypical Black Sidekick of similar stature. Stereotypical Black Sidekick makes stereotypical comment about Stereotypical Woman Barista. Stereotypical Woman Barista offers a retort. The whole café laughs. Cue CGI shit fest in which the building crumbles in slow motion, lens flare and the odd cleavage flash as Generic White Man dives for Stereotypical Woman Barista. Two Large, Out Of Shot Entities are having a fight through the building.

When the dust settles, there is an American flag burning. Stereotypical Hispanic Evil Man is laughing next to it. Out of the rubble, Generic White Man pulls Stereotypical Woman Barista and holds her. Insert comment that likens her to the perfect objectification that the scriptwriter could come up with. Stereotypical Woman Barista pines, kisses Generic White Man as if she has been waiting for him all her life even though she’s only known him a few seconds. Cue groan of Stereotypical Black Sidekick. He’s crushed below the rubble, blood on his lips. Generic White Man runs to him. Insert Stereotypical Black Sidekick stereotypical quip that has been his catchphrase the whole film. He dies before finishing it. Insert Generic White Man screaming no.

Generic White Man turns to Stereotypical Hispanic Evil Man. Insert speech about America. They fight. Stereotypical Hispanic Evil Man is killed by the coffee machine as Generic White Man throws it at him and the heat sparks some Miscellaneous Oil at Stereotypical Hispanic Evil Man’s feet, causing him to explode. Stereotypical Woman Barista offers up a fresh coffee, offering a line to the effect of did you want cream with that. Generic White Man kisses her again. Two Large, Out Of Shot Entities explode in the background near a milk truck. Insert cack-handed ejaculation joke. Role Credits. Run Time: Approx 3hr 45mins.