#antoshflash

! 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.

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.

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.

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.