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Brad Peach was a star.

Men wanted to have his body. Women just wanted his body.

Brad had an unusual morning schedule.

Every morning, Brad sat on his fully automatic toilet and let himself be irrigated. The poop was collected, sterilized and placed in a clear lucite block suitable as a gift or as collectable memorabilia.

Brad signed every block, it was his way of keeping in personal contact with his fans.

Brad then walked into his personal beauty salon. Tommy next door might have a private Starbucks but Brad had a private army to wash his face, brush his teeth, groom his ear and nose hair, clip his nails, moisturize his hands, arrange his hair in that casual "bed head" that had made him such an icon of the modern casual lifestyle.

Brad would just lie there. Reading scripts off the overhead voice-activated single beam LCD projector mounted above the head of his salon chair in a custom soundproof housing designed by Pininfarina.

Breakfast was exactly what his personal trainer told him it was. Today it was sea kelp, orange juice, lemongrass chlorophyll shot and bran muffins.

Brad didn't know whether to eat it or wear it.

After his workouts, his sweat stained clothes and socks were sold at charity auctions. His underwear he kept for his favourite charities because it appreciated rapidly in value after just a few days in the sun. He didn't know his manicurist was making a tidy profit off his nail clippings.

Brad ate, slept, read, said, exercised where and when somebody told him to.

He couldn't even say his favourite lines because it violated somebody's copyright.
He didn't even own his voice. It was trademarked now.

Brad accepted all of this as the price of fame and success.

Because, he told himself, "when I retire at 65 I can do what I want!"

meme first study

This is a meme started by Lexa of Author!Author! who, among numerous achievements is also a National Novel writing Month winner for 2006. Congratulations Lexa! I have successfully failed that competition 3 years in a row.

I wrote this entry at work so I grabbed the first book of the shelve in the teacher's room which happened to be a novel by Tama Janowitz, titled: "The male cross-dresser support group."

Five sentences down on page 123 I found:

Martin shrugged. "At first the stepfather and his mother sent him to all kinds of expensive clinics and institutionalized him. But then his family got tired of spending the money and they sent him to me."

As I am a rather bookish person I'll consider whom to challenge this evening but did not wish to hesitate in participating.

Everyone is encouraged to visit Lexa's site. It's worth your time.

Regards, B8A.

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For Powell Longballs, December 8, 2006 had started out as an ordinary day. He got up, got to his car, got to work.

The commute was faster than usual, Powell thanked his good fortune and let himself relax a little behind the wheel.

Really a lot fewer cars this morning, he thought to himself. He remembered that day a few years ago during the big rightsizing at his firm when he got up as usual, got to his car as usual and got to work in light traffic only to realize as he tried to open the locked doors of his office that it was Saturday.

he checked the date on his phone, nope. Today was Friday, he breathed a huge sigh of relief.

At the office, the problem grew in his mind (when exactly he'd started to think of it as 'the problem' was a mystery to him but that's what he called it once he'd taken notice).

There were so few employees. All nervously going about their tasks, preparing audits, credit opinions, reviewing balance sheets. It dawned on Powell that everyone had noticed the problem but didn't dare to discuss it. Perhaps out of fear that whatever the problem was, it would hear them talking and thus happen to them sooner.

His manager had once boasted that there could be a nuclear strike and the end of civilization and still his department could keep operating for over a month without ever needing input from above.

Now Powell watched it happening. Everyone just working through the day even as more and more employees went for lunch breaks and never returned.

Powell had gone beyond terror by the time 6pm rolled around. By then there was no one left but himself and the receptionist. She had stayed for the same reason he had, there was a lot of work to do and even as the phones had died down until by quitting time they hadn't rung in an hour she bravely sat attentively; ready to greet visitors who didn't come, answer questions that weren't asked.

As he left, he said goodbye.

"Goodbye Grace, have a nice afternoon,"
"See you Pow-pow," she smiled with tears in her eyes, she knew it too, she'd never called him that in the office.

Powell walked over to her and gently cupped her unresisting head in his hands and kissed her softly on the lips.

"There," he said, "I've always wanted to do that."

And then he disappeared.

Grace locked the office and set the alarm, run-proof mascara staining her cheeks black. She exited the office and listened. When she closed her eyes she couldn't believe she was in the heart of the city, not a car not a person not a siren, not even a bird.

Somehow, she knew she was the last person on Earth.

When she disappeared, it was with the memory of one last, first kiss still lingering on her lips.

And then nothing.

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In Lucille's imagination, all daytime drama scenes took place in underlit, windowless rooms. All the characters inhabited a permanent twilight. All silences included meaningful looks with zooming cameras into tightly framed faces in case she needed the hint.

Listening to Darren pour his troubles onto her over their second candlelit dinner at Zorba's she wondered if she'd ever find somebody to listen to her for a change. It all seemed so hard, why had she left Schroeder? She hadn't known it would be this hard to bend herself to a new mould. Hadn't she done it tens of times before she'd gotten married and divorced?

Snatches of her favourite daytime drama dialogues kept intruding in her mind: he's not the father, Danielle is Jared's sister! The babies were switched at the hospital, Francine has amnesia and nobody else knows the password.

Just at the point where she'd lost track of Darren completely he broke into her daydream.

"Lu? are you even listening to me?" said Darren.

She gave him a long meaningful look, she even caught herself imagining the zoom shot before answering.

"Sorry, I...I'm just...please go, I can't do this tonight."

There. She'd said it, the words not cold on her lips before he had grabbed his coat and left without so much as an 'I'll call you.' Thank Gods, she didn't think she couldn've stood another second of his droning on and on about himself and his problems. She didn't even mind paying.

She walked out into the cool December air and bent her head towards home.

Maybe She and Schroeder could work it out. She realized they might have bent themselves to each other too far to fit anyone else. It wasn't daytime drama but at least it was hers?

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 Batty Bronson was an android. Batty was eight years old. Batty had the body of a dead child and the brain of a super-scientist. Batty played global thermo-nuclear war in his bedroom. Batty disassembled his dad's Corvette. Batty knew protocols for a thousand and one different cultures. Batty communicated with extra-terrestrials. Batty was a compulsive liar.

Batty had one friend.

"Hey Batty Bronson!" said Josephine Cych, Batty's only friend and a girl.
"Hey Joe!" said Batty Bronson, the super secret combat droid.
"Did you catch Space Rangers on Saturday?" said Josephine Cych.
"Nah, I was at the special school again," said Batty.
"Oh no, not again?" said Josephine.

Batty had to go to a special school on Saturdays when he was bad. Batty went to the special school a lot.

"Maybe you recorded it?" said Batty. Josephine enjoyed the despair in his eyes at missing the Space Rangers a moment longer then flashed the disc out of her pocket.
"Aw Joe, you're the greatest."
"What would a super soldier be without his secret documents?"
"And his super spy," said Batty. She noticed his smile was different than before.

Josephine blushed.