SuperHipster

Rufus was a Media Studies student, indistinguishable from the rest of the Oxford Road crowd. By night he stalked the streets of the Northern Quarter, resplendent in his finest vintage elbow-patched jacket, his Edwardian moustache waxed to a fine point. He was SuperHipster: the enemy of conformity, fighting for the freedom to be different; nemesis of The Man.

Senses alert to the proximity of anything mainstream, he was always ready to disarm an opponent with his oft-heard cry of “I don’t like that thing that you like.”

Arguing With Myself

“Ideas. ‘S’all about ideas innit?”

It’s 1am and I’m talking to the voice inside my head. This isn’t, I should say, some demonic voice telling me to set fire to things, it’s the voice of my subconscious; the root of my creativity. My subconscious has had a personality for as long as I can remember. For reasons which I’m not entirely clear on, over the years, it’s evolved into that of a middle-aged London cab driver.

“Yes, it is about ideas,” I sigh. We’re covering old ground here. “But it’s not just about ideas, it’s about structure; it’s about…timing.” I hit that last “timing” with particular emphasis. This is the root of our argument; it’s the root of most of our arguments.

“Timing? Don’t tell me I’ve got no timing. You’ve done alright off my sense of timing in the past, pal.”

“I know, I know. You’re very… quick-witted.”

“Too right I am!” he cuts across me, petulantly, “You set ‘em up, I knock ‘em down. You know I…we can be sharp when we want to be.”

“Yes, but my point is that it’s 1am and, while I agree that sometimes you’ve got to grab an idea when it comes to you, my point is that you don’t have any ideas! You’re not actually giving me anything to work with. You’re just sitting there idly tapping away at that typewriter, or laptop, or whatever it is that you use in there, but you’re not actually producing anything.”

“Well I’m bored! I want to do stuff!” He’s whining now. This isn’t a good sign.

“I know you want to do stuff. So do I. All I’m saying is that I can’t lie here awake night after night listening to you being impatient but not delivering the goods. I do have a job  you know.”

“Yeah, a shit job,” he whispers as an aside, making sure it’s loud enough for me to hear, (as if there was a way for me not to hear).

“Fuck off alright! I’m sorry I’m not knocking out novels or struggling to get a sitcom commissioned, or whatever it is that you’d rather I do with my time. I wasn’t the one that pissed off 15 years ago for an extended holiday.”

“You were busy! You had other things to do – booze… birds… Not my fault if you couldn’t be bothered to stretch your creative muscles.” I can’t see, but I can tell he did air quotes around that last bit.

“Oh come on, you know you missed out on years of opportunity for us to do something worthwhile.”

“Well,” he sniffs, “like I say, you were busy. Maybe I felt a bit left out.”

“Fine. I’m very sorry.”

“Well so you bloody should be! You’re the one who suddenly decided you wanted to be all creative again. Wandering around with your fancy notebook like you’re Lord-bleedin’-Byron, waiting for inspiration to come and smack you in the face. Don’t you worry about inspiration, pal. You just stick with me and you’ll be fine.”

“Alright, alright,” I concede, “but it’s still 1am and you’re not actually giving me anything worth staying awake for, so do you think you could keep the noise down until do come up with that stroke of genius?”

“Hmmph,” he snorts, “fine. Whatever. But don’t blame me if you’re asleep and I come up with something great.”

“I’m sure you’ll remember it in the morning,” I reply, laying on the sarcasm.

“Well maybe I’ll wake you up and you can write it in your little notebook.” Touché.

“Right, well I’m going to sleep.”

“Sweet dreams!”

“Shut up.”

“Prick,” he mutters under his breath.

100 Words (Vince & Kev)

I must pass this poster 7 or 8 times on my walk to work and it’s occurred to me that there’s absolutely nothing, other than the presence of Vince Vaughn and Kevin James, to entice you into watching this. Neither the title nor the poster present any idea of plot, target audience or genre. Neither of these two are what you’d call “A-list” celebrity draws. Is this the level of ennui in the American film industry, and are we expected to fork out £10 a ticket for a film solely on the basis that it might be funny?

100 Words (Into The Lens)

Undiscovered photo group at Madlab, 13/01/11

“You work at your most creative when you work outside your comfort zone.”

“If you usually take photos of buildings, start looking at the people at street level. You’ll begin to see that they move in recognisable patterns.”

“Limit the number of shots you take per session. You’ll only have to go home and wade through 300 images, and it’ll make you think more about the shots that you do take.”

“Always keep a spare battery in a pocket close to your body. It’s easy to grab and your body heat will help retain the charge.”

Written as part of the 100words.com project.

100 Words (Through The Cubicle Wall)

“Hi babe.”

Babe? Eugh. Also, phone call in the toilet? Classy guy.

“Sorry I had to leave this morning, but you know how it is. Yeah, yeah I had a fun time too.”

The morning-after scarper. Definitely a classy guy.

“Eh? No, no course it’s not. No… it’s not a toilet.”

?

“I’m in a stationery cupboard.”

!

“Just a… er… a big stationery cupboard-type thing.”

Yeah, a big stationery cupboard-type thing with a toilet in it.

“Why would I ring you from a toilet?! Yeah. I know. Crazy. Want to get together next week sometime?“

*flush*
*exit*
Busted

100 Words (Sex and Chocolate)

It doesn’t happen often, certainly not when you’re expecting it. The anticipation dulls the senses and distracts the imagination. As your hand empties its contents into your mouth and you bite down, you savour the unique taste that’s released when the crisp, sugar shell explodes between your teeth. A citrus tang cuts across the creamy chocolate as it liquifies across your tongue, sending sparks across your synapses and a powerful rush of blood to the head. The flavour reaches its peak and fades to something more familiar; a memory from your childhood. That’s truly the sensation of the little death.

Written as part of the 100words.com project.

100 Words (Chuggers)

Don’t do that; don’t stop me in the street. Don’t jump into my line of sight with that rictus grin on your face, like we’re old friends that haven’t seen each other in months. I can spot you a mile off. It’s the t-shirt that gives you away; the t-shirt, the laminated ID badge and the fact that you’re walking backwards. I don’t care what the cause is; I don’t even care if you personally think it’s worthy. I wouldn’t give you my bank details any more than I’d buy a mobile phone off you. Everything about you screams ‘insincere’.

Written as part of the 100words.com project.

100 Words (Science Romance)

When the handsome man in the lab coat had sidled up to her at a conference and bought her a drink, Sally was pleasantly surprised. When, after a few more drinks, their conversation turned from ‘flirty’ to ‘suggestive’, she told herself that these things don’t happen to ordinary people. When, at the end of the night, he invited her back to his place to “make the beast with two backs”, she thought her luck was in.

What Sally didn’t know was the he was a warped geneticist, and that she was in for a night that she would never forget.

Written as part of the 100words.com project.

100 Words (Sunday Blues)

Beginning in the early evening, Sunday creeps up on you, enveloping you with a sense of dread, like the ceiling in a cheap horror movie bearing down on the occupants of the room. And, like a playground bully, Sunday doesn’t care about positives. It has no interest in the good things that have been or those that have yet to happen. It taunts you with them, holding them up in front of you and saying “Ah yes, but you can’t do those until you’ve lived through Monday.” Sunday is a cruel and petty tormentor; a burster of bubbles; a bastard.

Written as part of the 100words.com project.

100 Words (The Monkey-Faced Cat)

Liverpool was not a happy cat. Not because of the name but because he was known in the neighbourhood as “the monkey-faced cat”. Having escaped from a university research lab several years before (found on Cup Final day, hence the name), he’d been adopted by a loving family who gave him every feline luxury he could wish for. But no amount of tuna-flavoured kibble or catnip-infused toys could quell his aching desire for a banana, and the indignity of getting stuck in trees because of the lack of a prehensile tail made him incandescent with scratchy rage.

Written as part of the 100words.com project.