11 October 2015

The Fictionals


Theirs was a match made in hell - conceived in the shadow of self delusion and monumental conceit. They were faded fictionals who plied the social media with sufficient mimicry to keep themselves entertained, at least for a while. He would pour out his angst in rambling prose – then applaud his own efforts with haughty and graceless aplomb. He’d shown promise once, but the powder put a hex on him and his work was dry.

Author of a million self portraits – none of which resembled herself in any way – she pouted and preened the illusion of desirability to a waiting audience of sycophantic wankers and middle aged losers. She lied with consummate ease, but very little skill. It’s hard to juggle those balls when you’ve long lost sight of the truth.

They were D list semi celebrities – notorious to a tiny circle of nobodies. They even staged a marriage – which was doomed from the start. He was drunk on their wedding day – so drunk he thought her tears were tears of joy. Orphans can make strange bed fellows, each seeking in the other the motherly touch with a satyr – harlot dimension. There were too many contradictions between their sheets, too many fights and too many tears. Theirs was a circus macabre - a paradigm for dysfunction and banality. It wasn’t that they lacked love – they lacked friendship. They had little in common but their aspirations – little enough to last a lifetime. In the end they parted – promising to keep in touch and remain friends – but they’d been hostages too long to separate without a parting shot.


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