Minneapolis Girls

A tall cello on the stage always gives aura of respectability. But that wasn't the only reason why the spectators watched, enthralled.

A keyboard stood ahead of the cello, not to be outdone. A girl was playing it, as well as belting out jazz numbers. When she stopped singing, the turn came for the lead guitarist to take the center stage. Behind him, a drummer kept the whole thing ticking.

About thirty people sat in a muted surrounding. The place was lit with only candlelight, the stage had its only lighting. This was a perfect setting for jazz.

I was clutching a glass of pint, swilling in, as the music suffused through my veins. So easy to guzzle beer when the music was this good.

They were the second act of the night. Before this, a boring Punk Rock band had played. I had walked out and was drinking in the main bar area. The concert room was behind the main room, where you had to pay to go in.

A lady talked me into watching this band play. I should thank her a million times.

When the first song ended, the singer introduced herself. Although her name slipped off my mind, her accent told us she was an American. By now, I was sitting next to a middle-aged woman. My friend had already befriended her daughter. I was getting the share of the spoils.

Like me, my female companion was fascinated by her. We agreed she sounded like Nora Jones. Her soulful voice as she continued to sing started to captivate us. We halted our conversation. Watched transfixed. Loud cheers greeted the ending of every song.

After six songs, she introduced another singer. She said they'd met in some songwriting convention in US. Forged a close bond. Another American treat then.

The first singer retreated. The second singer played the keyboard also, but only occasionally. She sang two blues number. But what good songs they were. Each was at least about seven minutes long. She sang with her eyes closed, going in that depth where she came out with a husky voice. She moved her hands also, in the air to the rhythm of the beat, gently rocking her body as well. To my female companion I said I was falling in love with the singer. Her reaction, I don't blame you.

Her music was more upbeat compared to the other girl. That probably was the reason why I liked her more. The fact that she sang blues, not jazz, was also another factor. Anyway, they both were very good singers.

After the blues singer finished, the first singer came back, singing couple more songs. The evening concluded after that. I realized I'd been glued to my seat all throughout their performance. The beer had long finished. My bedtime had long elapsed. They had taken us to a place where we'd forgotten all our worries.

That’s what we call great piece of music.

A Perfect Model

I sashay on the catwalk. My hips sway to the music, with skimpy clothes hugging my fifteen-year-old body. Cameras click, their flashes ignite the stage. Eyes stare at me.

I reach the top of the ramp, gyrate around it, giving the audience the glimpse of my perfect ass. ‘An eight wonder of the world,’ a journalist had called my body. I remember the words, smile. A male voice screams, “Robin!” My name.

My pictures have infested fashion magazines. Many hailing me as a stunning discovery. They talk about my vivid fuller lips, my large blue eyes, my perfect figure. A photographer described me as amazing. I had sex with him.

Returning back, I reached the end of the catwalk. I’ll vanish in the changing room, sip a glass of champagne, change clothes, come out again. My stiletto will go up by two inches, satin silk will shield only my genitals.

I turned around before exiting and looked down to see my parents. My dad’s eyes look at me. Tears are brimming in them. Tears of happiness, but mostly of sorrow.

“That explains your extraordinary growth at such a young age,” a doctor at the hospital said yesterday. I was rushed in, after collapsing from exhaustion. “Also explains why you haven’t suffered menstruation yet.”

True, but I always thought I was a goddess, literally. I had everything while my classmates looked at with envy. At twelve, I was at least two inches taller that all of them, my breasts stood prominent. Guys ogled me in school.

“You don’t have an ovary,” the doctor continued. So, big deal.

“You’ve got testes. You’re a male body gone wrong.”

I was about to slap this doctor. “You’ll never be able to have children.”

Great.

“You’re half male, half female.”

How can that be? I got up form the bed. Strippped. Showed him my breasts, vagina, everything. I was crying. “See for yourself. I’m a woman.”

“Only on the outside. You’re what is called intersex. Don’t worry, this secret will stay at the hospital. The truth won’t come out.”

My mum almost had a heart attack. My dad rushed out of the room, unable to bear her cries. But I’ve got to go on, do what I love doing.

Generosity

I don’t know if giving away a pair of old, discarded shoes can be counted as an act of generosity. But when BBC launched a campaign for shoes donation, I had no hesitation in contributing to it. It was an easy decision to make. Several pairs of my old shoes, trainers and formal shoes, lay collecting dust. Wearing out of fashion material that have seen better days, just doesn’t appeal to me.

So today, I got a pair of adiddas trainers, bundled them inside a bag, and carried it to a local charity shop. A nice smile welcomed me inside. I departed with a ‘thank you’ from a staff who collected the bag.

My shoes will now head for African. A poor boy, who until now treaded the earth bare feet, will now have opportunity to wear the shoes I purchased two years back. Just think about it, I paid 50 quid for the shoes, and after wearing for five months, the shoes went out of fashion. Since then, I’ve hoarded them inside a pit that has also claimed many more. While in poor country, millions wander bare feet, the soles of their feet frequently pricked and pierced by shrapnel of all kind.

While I don’t feel guilty for being chic, avant garde, in a city that demands me to be that, I do feel guilty when discarded clothes and shoes lie in waste.

This act of generosity definitely won't be a one trick pony.

Me Mobile Phone

Look, it's not funny. Whoever has me mobile phone, please hand it over. I'll give you a small reward. How about a tenner? That's a wee bit of money. Will buy yer four pints. If yer go to a pub where I go, five pints mate. That's how much you can drink with that dosh. So come on, I'm waiting, it's already been four days since the phone's gone.

It's got me girlfriend's number, her photo, photos of so many places, people. Ever thought what happens if yer house gets lost? That's what's happened to me. Me mobile phone is everything. I had contact details of so many people. All them numbers will be lost now.

The phone's so handy. I calculate. Last time, I calculate me budget for the month, when I spend a thick wad of cash on condoms. Oh mate, I was doing left, right and center, million times. Me so fed up putting on that rubber, one time, me done it without one. But she was a good bird, not them ones, slappers, you know what I mean.

Then, there is a calendar there. Every morning, me get up with a headache, a hangover, and have to check what date is it. Me mobile is perfect for that. Two buttons pressed, and there, the date flashes on the screen.

Oh, me music. 100 songs in there. If yer like the songs I like, yer must be enjoying the phone like crazy. Are yer? Yer bastard.

Betty Curse and Evanescences and all them lot, crazy girls, ain't it? Punk rock chicks. I like them birds. I love the black nail polish in them hands. Phew...I can bang them all right. All night mate. Listening to them gives me that sort of satisfaction. I bet yer having the same dream, eh?

So listen, how about yer give me a call and we meet. Me hand yer money and take back me mobile phone. I'll kiss yer arse also, if you want to. That phone is me everything. Don't make me cry.

Two pints of Lager and a packet of Crisp

“It’s like this park is me enemy,” Kevin said. “Freakin’ crazy the park is. It’s haunted. I’m tell yer.”

“What happened?”

“The third time it’s happened.” He looked out of the window, stared at the grey sky, the rain pissing down. “What a day. Can’t even see the heavens.”

“What happened in the park?”

Kevin turned away from the window, munched crisp.

“Them Hollies. Every time they rustle when I'm under. The branches fall off, the leaves twirl, the bark looks angry. It becomes dark.”

“And?”

“What yer do mean, and? It’s scary. Them leaves are waxy, its got spiny edges. Have yer seen them?”

“No.”

“See..see what I mean. Yer wouldn’t understand me now, would yer?”

“But what’s the problem?”

“Yesterday, a berry hit me on me head. Knocked me cold. I was lying down for hours before a gypsy got me.”

“Tell me about the gypsy?”

“Never met him before. Tatty clothes. Scruffy. He shook me, gave me water to drink. Me head’s a whorl after that, round and rickety the park was.”

“Then?”

“More leaves fell. More berries fell. I just ran off after that. Freakin’ scary. The gypsy shouted stop. Never looked back. Bolted out of the park.”

“Oh, finish that pint now. I’ll buy you another one.”

“Cheers. I need it.”

“What did you do after that?”

“Went me home and lied down, until me wife came back.”

The pint glass emptied. I ordered two more.

“Fancy going to the park yourself now?”

“You haven’t told me which park it was.”

“What’s wrong with yer? I told yer first. The heath. Over the vale.”

“Oh. No you hadn’t.”

“So, me wife wrote a letter today to the council. We want them trees knocked down.”

“Why? I don’t think the council will do that.”

“Yer want more people dead then?”

“Nothing like that has happened before.”

“It will now.”

A burly man approached the bar. “What have to been telling the gentleman here, eh?”

“What yer mean?” Kevin turned away from him, again staring at the window. He grabbed his pint and moved towards the window. His footsteps led him to an empty seat.

“I hope you got a good story for two pints you bought him,” the burly man said.